One Thing Leads To Another
by Tom Beaumont
Summary: COMPLETE! George has to attend his high school class reunion, and Izzie volunteers to go with him, despite his vocal protests. Postprom, preMistake. Rated T.
1. Chapter 1

**One Thing Leads To Another**

_OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER: Based on Grey's Anatomy, created by Shonda Rhimes, and produced by Touchstone Television._

* * *

ONE

"Where are you going?" Meredith asked George. She was trying to seem nonchalant. After all, she had only been wandering by his room, carrying a steaming mug of coffee, and caught the briefest glimpse of George packing a suitcase. No, 'packing' was the wrong word, she decided; that implied that there was care and concern for the items. What George O'Malley was doing was stuffing fistfuls of clothing into his mustard-yellow hardside American Tourister case, muttering all the while. It rang a too-familiar alarm bell in her head and made her stop dead at his door to ask him that single question.

"Going?" George replied in a wobbly voice, still shoveling. The word caused him to grimace, and the grimace gave him pause. "You know what? I'm not," he added. "I'm a doctor. A surgical intern. An important member of a team." He nodded, mostly to himself. "I'm not a little kid anymore. I can do whatever I want." He turned his head and smiled at Meredith, eyes alight. "Thank you. I'm not going." He dumped the suitcase on to his bed.

The genuine warmth of his expression gave Meredith a rush. Her friend hadn't smiled at her like that in some time, and she had missed it. As she felt a smile breaking across her own face, she could hear George's mood shift with a groan usually heard exclusively from heavy machinery.

"No. No. I can't not go," he said. She turned to see him behind her, dragging his open, empty suitcase across the floor. His eyes were miserable again. "My mom is all excited about it and I promised her - _promised her_ - I'd do it and they know where I live and they'll call and they'll call if I don't show up and I...I...have to go. I _have_ to." He turned back to his room, dejected, pausing only to do a little dance of frustration by the door, which didn't do the shell of his suitcase any favors..

Meredith followed him with her eyes, and the corners of her mouth turned down with concern. "Where are you going?"

* * *

"A class reunion? That's it?" Christina snorted as she slammed her locker door. "I swear, Bambi, you lose your mind over the stupidest things." Then she caught a glare from Meredith, and added, "No offense." 

"It's not just the reunion," George groaned from his seat on the bench in front of his locker. "It's the whole..._event_."

"Oh, yeah," Meredith said. "Tell them about your itinerary."

"Itinerary?" Alex asked, putting his foot on the bench to tie his shoe. "I thought these things were, you know, pretty casual."

George rolled his eyes. "Not in my class. Things always have to be..." His voice trailed off, then returned. "See, tonight, there's this mixer. Casual, right? Sure. Lots of awkward conversations with people I didn't have anything in common with a decade ago. Then, tomorrow morning, there's a breakfast to honor retired teachers - and also to challenge the gag reflexes of those of us who couldn't get through the night before without a few hundred drinks." He stood up, his juices flowing. "This will be followed by a parents' luncheon - "

"A parents' luncheon?" Christina wondered.

"Yes indeed. Fun for the whole family as moms and dads share hilarious stories of how their children haven't changed in ten years. Then, there's a tour of the high school, where we'll meet and greet the members of this year's senior class, ninety-nine percent of whom could care less about meeting ninety-nine percent of us." George was hitting his stride as he flattened his back against his locker. "And then, as the cherry on top of this sundae, a 'formal affair' - which is code for the same kind of long, boring dance that we never thought we'd ever have to attend again when we finally graduated from high school."

Then he was silent, but just as wild-eyed, and the room was quiet. Finally, he added, "And the best part is that this entire death march will take place inside the walls of Seattle's beautiful Hotel Pacifica. Except, of course, for the high school tour, because, hey, there aren't any awful memories stalking those hallways." He spun to face his locker, and banged his forehead against the door.

The sound of the flesh and bone against sheet metal echoed in the locker room. And then Alex said what almost everyone had to be thinking: "So don't go."

"I have to." Another bang as punctuation.

The locker room crowd began to thin, now more interested in getting to work than watching a colleague have something akin to a nervous breakdown. Christina, however, had stayed. She looked at Meredith. "A formal affair...as in 'formal'?"

"Yeah," Meredith said. "Black ties and ball gowns, strictly enforced."

"Seriously?"

"It was on page four of the event schedule."

"In red block letters," George said, his voice muffled by the door. Another bang.

"Don't go," Meredith said.

"I'll second that," Christina added.

"I. Have. To," George replied, about to put his forehead into the metal again.

"Easy on the lockers, O'Malley." Every eye found Bailey, standing in the doorway. "Those things aren't exactly a dime a dozen. Besides, I could hear you down the hall."

"Sorry," George said sheepishly.

"You're forgiven. Rounds in five, people. Do not make me wait." She narrowed her eyes at George, then disappeared.

Meredith walked over to George and squeezed his hand. He gave her a weak smile, and she returned it, then left with Christina. Alex stayed behind, seemingly to wash his hands. But as the door closed again, his eyes met George's via the mirror. "O'Malley, if I was you, I wouldn't go," he said. "And no, you don't have to."

George started reaching for words. "I just - "

"What?" Alex asked.

"It's gonna suck. And except for my parents, nobody's gonna be there that I'd want to talk to."

"Then take somebody." Alex's eyes glinted. "That Callie chick, maybe."

George frowned. "Callie - Doctor Tor - Callie's not - we're not on good terms right now."

"Fine. Someone else then. I don't really give a rat's ass what you do or don't do." Alex grabbed the locker room door handle, and looked back at the other man. "I just want you to quit bitching about it. Think you can pull that off?" Then he was gone.

George was finally alone again. He took a moment to organize his thoughts, and felt a heavy sigh escape. Why, of all the people to take advice from, was it Alex Karev's that he would follow?

* * *

Around eleven, a disheveled Izzie collapsed onto a cafeteria bench next to Meredith, nose-deep in a text about spinal trauma, and Christina, who was picking at a salad while going over a patient's history. "Don't volunteer to take other people's hours, especially if ninety percent of them are in The Pit," Izzie mumbled. "Just don't." 

Meredith didn't look up from her book. "You're off soon, right?"

"Two o'clock," Izzie said. Her mood brightened, which shone through one of her patented dazzling smiles. "And then, a whole weekend. Two entire days of just sitting around the house."

Still not a look. "Which is why you took the hours, right?"

"Yes, Doctor Grey," Izzie replied, her smile actually growing. "No pager, no codes, no nothing."

"So stop complaining. It's making me hate you," Meredith said, turning a page.

Christina speared some lettuce. "I still can't believe you want that much time off."

"I forgot the pace, okay? I just need to - recalibrate."

"See, Christina," Meredith said, "most of us non-robots have to come up for air."

"Har-har," Christina replied dryly. "Don't blame me if something cool happens that you could have been a part of, but because you had to - _ahem_ - recalibrate, you miss out."

"The sick people will still be here when I get back."

"Maybe," Christina said, circling some numbers on the paper. "Or maybe not."

"I'll think negative thoughts," Izzie said.

George appeared with a lunch tray and flopped down on a seat. "I've never seen that much vomit in one morning," he said, taking a bite of a cold ham sandwich.

Christina dropped her fork and her pen on to the table, and threw a scowl at him. "Thanks a lot, George. I'd just managed to put it out of my head."

Meredith finally looked up at Izzie. "You missed it. The cutest five year old in the world meets a stomach virus. Just about broke my heart."

Izzie nodded. "Adorable, just up to the upchucking."

Christina shook her head. "Maybe that can be your excuse for not going to your event, George." She tried to mimic his voice. "'Please excuse me from attending the reunion; I'm puking my guts out, thanks to a member of the Peanuts gang.'" It was during her joke that she noticed the color draining from George's face.

Izzie's brow crinkled. "What event?"

* * *

She had dragged him by the elbow into an empty file room just off a nurses' station and slammed the door behind them. "I can't believe you wouldn't tell me about this," Izzie fumed. 

"It's not a big deal," George lied, literally through his teeth. "It's a class reunion. I was planning on going alone."

She gave him a hard glare, right between the eyes. "Why would you want to do that? I'm available, George. Whenever, wherever, like you'd be for me, right?"

He shifted under her gaze. "Yeah, I know. It's just that this - "

"This?" Izzie folded her arms and waited.

George decided to lay it plain for her. "It's going to suck, okay? And not in an ordinary 'this-is-horrible' kind of suck, where having your best friend around would be useful. We're talking 'end-of-days, hide-the-women-and-children, save-the-last-bullet-for-yourself' kind of suck. Something that you desperately want to keep any and all loved ones away from."

She frowned at him. "Your parents are going."

"Yeah, but they _want_ to," he groaned. "Doesn't that tell you anything?"

Izzie was steadfast. "You need someone with you," she declared.

"I need someone?" he asked, a hint of incredulity leaking into his voice.

"That's right. You need someone to protect your sanity, such as it is."

He had to admit she had a point. Maybe this would be something he could use to break the ice with Callie - or at least chip away at it a bit. "Fine. Who?" George asked. The smile she gave him answered the question. "No..." he whined, like a man who'd taken a solid punch to a kidney.

"Too late, I'm volunteering my services. And you aren't talking me out of it." She turned to leave, eyes twinkling.

George felt the tightening knot in his belly let loose. "Dammit, Izzie!" he barked, in that deeper voice he never used unless he was serious about something. It made her stop at the door, and turn to look at him.

He took a breath. "I'm glad that you care about me. I'm glad that you want to be present at what is likely to be the most mortifying thirty-six hours of my life. And I'd be glad to walk into any of the - " he paused for a cold shudder " - activities - with you right next to me. But - "

"But what?" Izzie asked.

George shook his head. "I might - possibly - cross paths with some people. And while I don't like them in any way, shape, or form, I can deal with them, because I'm an adult now. And that's what adults do."

"And you're saying I'm not an adult? I'm not capable of 'dealing'?"

"No. What I'm saying is, I don't want you coming with me to save me. I don't need saving."

Izzie blinked. "I'm not trying to save you." She paused. "Okay, maybe I am." She rested a hand on his shoulder. "But you would do it for me. And you know that as well as I do."

He grasped her hand and squeezed it. "You're not wrong. But I'm having visions of a riot starting in the ballroom of the Hotel Pacifica because somebody I haven't seen in ten years or so starts teasing me and you stand up to him or her, and the next thing you know, it's lights and sirens. I've seen you in action, Izzie Stevens; I know your speed."

She nodded. "So what's your plan?" she asked.

George was about to bring up the Callie idea, but he thought better of it - her name in Izzie's presence led nowhere he wanted to travel. He would track Callie down later. Talk to her about it, casually, of course. Maybe it would actually go well this time, and she wouldn't slam a door in his face before he could get two words out.

He noticed Izzie noticing him lost in thought. He shook off the cobwebs and said, "I'm going. By myself. I'll suffer, but I'll survive. Then on Monday, I'll tell you all about it, and you'll make me feel better, like usual."

"That's certainly a way to handle it," Izzie said.

They were both quiet for the moment. "If I hurt your feelings before - when I yelled - I'm sorry." George said. "It just happened. I didn't mean to."

"No need to apologize," she said, leading him to the exit.

"Thank you," he replied. He stopped in the doorway, letting her pass. She was being very reasonable about this, he thought. Maybe they finally had reached an understanding. Maybe she finally saw that he didn't need her protection all the time. And that might give him the opening he needed to convince Callie that he was really and truly his own man now.

Izzie started to walk away, then about halfway down the hall, she turned back, and asked, "So, do I need to pack for one day or two?" Her voice echoed through the corridor, and around his brain.

George's forehead banged against a much more solid door this time.

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._**


	2. Chapter 2

**One Thing Leads To Another**

_DISCLAIMER: Based on Grey's Anatomy, created and produced by smarter, more talented people than me. This story? Just me, taking up for George._

**_

* * *

_TWO**

Callie was standing behind the desk at a nurses' station, staring intently at a patient's chart. George sidled up to her, and in his best eager puppy, said, "Hey, Doctor Torres." She scowled - not at him, but for him. He did his best to ignore this. "So, I heard that you were doing that hip reconstruct - " was all that escaped his lips before she pointed a particularly sharpened index finger at him. She threw in a glare and head-shake as bonus clues to her mindset.

Burke showed up at the station just as she was walking away, the tail of her lab coat whipping in her wake. "What did you do, O'Malley?" he asked.

"Something completely and totally wrong." George turned to meet the other man's eyes. "Worst of all, she's not - "

"Speaking." Burke nodded.

"At all." George looked over at the space where she had been standing. "Do you have any idea of what I could - "

"O'Malley," Burke said. "I'm not in the advice-to-the-lovelorn business."

"I know. It's just that I - I'm clueless here. And the people who would tell me what I would need to do in a situation like this, they don't like her."

Burke stifled a knowing chuckle. "Really."

George's eyes found something in the distance. "Really. Which doesn't make any sense to me, by the way." He sighed, as if the object had drifted completely out of view. "Callie's sweet and funny and sexy and smart - all of which puts her way, way out of my league, as you can plainly see - so what I need is someone - anyone - to tell me what I need to say or do so that she and I can get back to wherever we were before whatever it was that I did." His gaze turned back to his mentor.

Burke leveled his eyes at George. "You're not new here, right? No sharp blows to the skull recently?"

"Well..."

"If you want her to talk to you, you need to shut up every once and a while," Burke pronounced.

George winced. "Ow."

Burke grinned. "Let her have her space. If she wants to come back, she will."

"You mean I have to be patient."

"Wouldn't hurt."

George nodded at that. Then he added, "So what do I do about my reunion?"

Burke's forehead tilted down a bit. "You're going?"

"Yes. My mom called an hour ago to verify my hotel room reservation, and to make sure I hadn't chickened out."

A warm smile. "Moms do that."

George exhaled. "Izzie volunteered to go with me, so maybe the weekend won't be...aw, who am I kidding?" His head fell into his hands.

Burke pretended to find something in a file. "Izzie, huh?"

George looked up. "Okay, what does that mean?"

"Nothing, O'Malley." Burke tried to bite into his lip to keep a mischievious smile from forming.

"Nothing? You're smiling about something. And there is nothing funny about any of this."

"You're absolutely right. Zero things are funny." A hard chuckle escaped.

"You're seeing lights and hearing sirens, aren't you?"

"Breaking news bulletins, actually. Live footage from the scene, and that sort of thing."

George frowned and looked at his watch. "Five o'clock now. I leave for the hotel at six. And Izzie was exhausted at eleven this morning. She probably went home and crashed. By the time she finally wakes up, it'll be tomorrow morning, and she will have forgotten all about - "

"Nothing."

George put his head in his hands again. "Yeah, that's where I was headed, too."

Burke lightly smacked George on the back of the head. "Hey. Be glad you have her in your life. A friend like that - most people never have one." Then he tucked a file folder under his arm and walked away.

George looked up as his mentor strode away. "Ow," he said.

* * *

As he stood alone on the elevator, George tried to blink away his frustrations. Check-in at the hotel had been brutal. The line was fairly long, and while he didn't recognize anyone as of yet, he could feel that gnawing dread of eventual discovery, and had to fight the urge to simply bolt, dropping his suitcase and everything else and racing to his car for a speedy getaway. He endured the erosion of his stomach, though, and made it to the front of the line, where it took three desk clerks and twenty-five minutes to find his reservation on the computer - _"System's been on the fritz all day,"_ was the excuse that came from the 'senior hospitality clerk', an older woman with a pained smile and frozen hair. 

Worse of all, one of the desk clerks told him that a Mrs. O'Malley kept calling from his room, wondering if he'd shown up yet, and that had been almost too much for him to hear - not only had his mother checked them all in, but also finagled adjacent rooms **and** a key to his. She was a charmer, to be sure.

The elevator dinged and the doors swooshed open. He caught his reflection in the large mirror opposite the elevator as he stepped off. He knew the look he was seeing; it was very similar to those that patients had before a doctor handed them news they knew was coming and didn't want to hear.

"Buckle down," he muttered to himself, hefting his suitcase off the floor and making his way down the hall. "At least Izzie wasn't at the front desk waiting for you." That made him feel a little better, and as he found his room, he discovered he was now thinking about a warm shower, and a change of clothes, and that later tonight there would be many, many drinks.

He stuck the keycard into the lock, and opened his door.

His eyes found a woman in a black cocktail dress and pumps, holding a champagne flute close to her cleavage. She was staring at him from a languorous pose on the bed, her facial expression one of hungry seduction. "Hello, Doctor O'Malley," she said, teasing the air with a breathy voice.

George nearly threw his suitcase at her. "Dammit, Izzie!"

He spun on his heel and zipped back down the hall. She leapt from the bed, trying to catch him, but he was six steps ahead of her. "Slow down, George," she cried. "I can't run in this."

George was tempted to race to the stairwell, but the suitcase had conspired with his shoulder to make him stop at the elevator doors. He slapped the down button, and Izzie flinched a bit. "Mrs. O'Malley? Seriously?" he asked.

Izzie's eyes were downcast. "I got here at five. I thought I'd meet you in the lobby, but the desk wasn't busy so..."

"So you told them you were my _**wife**_?" His voice was carrying shards of glass.

"Sort of." She started playing with the blond ringlets that were framing her face.

"Sort of?"

Izzie shook her head. "I was, like, only kidding, and the desk clerk took me at my word."

"Makes me really trust security around here." He slapped the doors. "Where's the damn elevator?"

A **_ding_**. George fumed for a moment, and as the doors slid open, he stepped on, still shaking his head. Izzie followed him, her eyes pleading. "I'm sorry, really," she said. "It was just a joke. I didn't mean to - "

"Izzie - tonight is just - it's not the night for that," George's eyes were a bit dewy. "I'm stressed out and I'm tired and I can't take any more, please. Let's just get through the night. End of story."

They were both quiet for a moment. Then Izzie glanced over at him. "So. Do you like my dress?"

George exhaled, looking her up and down. "Yeah. It's nice. And your hair. It's - " His face broke into a broad grin, and a chuckle rolled out of him.

Izzie's eyes narrowed. "What's funny?"

The chuckle had gained steam. "Nothing. It's just - " he paused to take a breath, and the laugh grew instead, but he continued, "You looked sexy as hell, back there on the bed, actually. If I hadn't been so pissed, you might have even - _mmph_ - confused me a little."

This moved Izzie to laughter, too. "Seriously?"

"A little, yeah," he said, tears in his eyes. He glanced down at the floor and noticed one of his shoes was untied. He knelt down to take care of it.

"That _is_ funny, George. And you being confused wouldn't be that great, since I'm staying in your room with you - " she broke into a heavy guffaw.

He looked up at her, suddenly pale. "Wha - " he choked out as the elevator suddenly shuddered, tossing her against the wall and him face-first into her pelvis. His hands had involuntarily shot out to stop his forward motion, and found her round hips to cup.

_**Ding.**_

George heard the whoosh of the doors, but found himself frozen, his face pressed against a soft fabric covering something even softer. "Nobody's noticed, right?" he begged.

Izzie's voice was shaky. "Nope," she said.

He didn't move, hoping that perhaps he could shrink into nothingness. "Really?"

Then a female voice echoed from across the lobby. "_George O'Malley?_"

He felt Izzie pat him on the head. "Not really," she said sadly.

George turned an eye out, then offered a sheepish grin to the stunned crowd. Izzie gave them her best glass smile. "Talk about a confused look," she said.

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._**


	3. Chapter 3

**One Thing Leads To Another**

_**Tom Sez:** It's refreshing to come back to this cool breeze of a story after finishing_ **Do I Have To Say The Words** _(which, if you dabble in the angsty, and you haven't read it, you really oughta - and that's the end of my Hard Sell). That sonuvabugger nearly ate me alive. This one, for me - and I hope for you, O Kind Reader - has been a goofy grin from start to finish. No love-triangle angst. No dark nights of the soul. No furtive, sweaty, graphic sex. ('Less, of course, that's what you're in the market for, sport-o - then you need to check out_ **DIHTSTW**_, which fills all those bills, and how.)_ **One Thing** _is just a real sweetheart of a story, and I've enjoyed bringing it to you. _

_**Tom Also Sez:** By the by, thank you for making this story - in the span of two weeks - my second-most-read piece on the site! Ever! WOW! My readers rock! (I use exclamation points!) I'm thrilled - more than thrilled - that y'all dig it._

_DISCLAIMER, OBLIGATORY: _Grey's Anatomy_ is property of Disney. This means it is either soon to be a touring ice show, or have a direct-to-DVD sequel released "from the Vault" in fifty-odd years. But I kid multi-national corporations that could buy and sell me..._

* * *

**THREE **

Izzie was standing at the hotel room door. Actually, it was more like she was leaning against it, pressing her forehead against the polished oak, wondering if she'd ever be allowed back inside. "George?" she asked. "Could you just - "

"No," he said.

She frowned and spun on her heel, pressing her back against the door while folding her arms across her chest. "It wasn't that bad," she muttered.

"Yes, it was," he replied.

"No, no. There weren't that many people in the lobby."

"Doesn't matter. They're all gonna know. They're all - " She could hear his frustration. "This is exactly why I wanted to come alone."

Izzie groaned. They'd been doing this back and forth for what felt like hours. The worst of it was that every once and a while, someone would pass by, notice the blonde bombshell in the little black dress, and offer either an apologetic smile or a leering smirk. The former only made her self-conscious; the latter - well, if that heavy-set Soprano-wannabe walked by her once more with that ice bucket in his fat-fingered grip...

She smacked the door with her palm. "George," she said. "Open the door, or I swear - "

"What? I'm in here, and you're out there. What can you possibly do to me?"

George had a point, she decided. What could she do, really? An older woman passed by, giving her a sad nod. Izzie sighed at first, then, inspiration struck. "I'll call your mother," she said.

A shuddery laugh came through the door. Then it opened to the length of the chain-lock, and George peered at her. "You wouldn't dare."

She drew a cell phone from her clutch purse. "You've got three seconds to let me in or my fingers do the walking, O'Malley."

"You're bluffing. You don't even know her number."

She tilted her head and started dialing.

He groaned and closed the door. The chain scratched against the lock, and as he opened up, she pushed her way past him. "I can't believe you," she said. "One little misunderstanding - "

"Little misunderstanding? People saw me! They saw - us! I had my face buried in your - " he struggled to find a way to say it, finally deciding on, " - pelvic region!"

Izzie grinned. "Pelvic region? Watch the medical jargon, Doctor."

"I'm trying to be delicate - " He noticed her expression and it made his nostrils flare. "Don't change the subject! I am in full freak out, okay?" George started pacing the room.

"No way."

"Oh, God, Iz," he said, collapsing on to the bed. "I mean, it's just like high school all over again."

Izzie tried not to laugh out loud. "You crashed into a lot of - pelvic regions - then too?"

"Actually, in a strange coincidence, yes, I did." George pounded the mattress with his fists.

"Seriously?" An overused word to be sure, but that's all she could think to say.

"Why would I joke about that?" George snapped up, and flew off the bed, eyes ablaze with panic. He grabbed for his suitcase and rushed to the dresser. "I gotta leave. I gotta leave now." He started pulling his clothes from the drawers and throwing them into his open luggage. "I'll use the stairs, hail a cab, be gone before anyone else shows up." As he tried to shut the case, the battered and bruised hard side decided it no longer wished to be his accomplice, informing him of the resignation by snapping a hinge. He grimaced, and ditched it to his side, where it hit the floor with a clonk. "You can stay in the room," he sighed. "You were staying anyway. And - I'll pay." The madness in his eyes intensified. "How about it? Make a little fort. Empty the mini-bar. Sky's the limit."

"And what about the rest of the reunion?"

George thought for a second, then eked out, "I'll tell my parents to say that...I was...killed in a tragic - aw, hell, I don't know..." He sat down hard on his suitcase, which decided to pay back his care by caving in beneath him.

Izzie stepped over, and knelt next to him. "Okay. You can go with faking your death. It's an option. Or."

George winced. Only part of it was for Izzie's benefit. "God, here comes the 'or'..."

Izzie kept cool. "Or. You can take a shower, get dressed, and go down to the mixer. Head held high. And I'll stand next to you the whole night, if for no other reason than to keep you from falling over."

He blew his breath out. "Okay. But if it gets too weird..."

"George," she said with a smile. "How weird can it get?"

* * *

They walked down the hall, heading for the ballroom. She'd linked arms with him, partially to keep him moving, and occasionally she'd look over at her friend, who'd offer a sick smile in between warnings about who to avoid and why. The walls were lined with photo collages, crafted on paperboard with obvious care and attention to detail. Fistfuls of glitter and sequins had been lovingly glued to every square millimeter not covered with disembodied teenage faces and jolly script labels and arrows pointing to one poor soul or another. At first, Izzie had thought them garish, but during the journey, realized that she'd been very wrong: they were flat-out disturbing, like scrapbook pages that a budding twelve year-old homicidal maniac would put together. And it didn't help her ill-at-ease nerves that George was still drilling her with protocol lessons as they edged ever closer to what now resembled the march to Hannibal Lecter's prison cell. "Do not touch the glass, do not approach the glass," she thought she heard George say. 

"What?" she asked.

"I said, if a guy named Ernie Dalton starts talking to you," he said, straining against the knot of his necktie, "nod politely, but do not make any lingering eye contact."

"Lingering? Why?"

"Just trust me on that." He ran a hand through his hair. "And avoid the Nickname Boys."

"What? Who are - ?"

"It was kind of a club. It'll be on their tags. Just get away, and get away quickly."

Izzie frowned. "George, you've been doing this since you got out of the shower. It feels like you're prepping me for a trip to Mars."

"Oh, if it were only that simple," he said. He noticed in the distance a face or two that he recognized and tried to turn back.

Izzie took his hand in hers with a delicate feminine grace. Then she wrenched it like a truck driver, making him gasp. "O'Malley," she hissed in his ear. "Settle. Down."

She let go of him at the hostess table. "Good evening, fellow Grizzly!" chirped the woman in the green dress seated next to a cheery "WELCOME WILSON HIGH GRADS!" banner. Spread before her were fanned piles of blank nametags and pre-printed ID badges.

"Our mascot," he said.

Izzie blinked. "I gathered."

The woman's face round face reshaped. "Wait. Don't say it - you're face is a very familiar...you're..."

"George O'Malley," he mumbled.

"George O'Malley. Oh, God, it's..." she replied, suddenly a bit flushed. "I...uh...hi. It's me. Wendy. Wendy Poore." She pointed to her nametag, smartly aligned above her bustline. "I...uh...sat next to you in senior-year English Lit."

He squinted a her a bit, then offered an apologetic smile. "Oh, yeah. Yeah. Wendy," he said. "How have you been?" His voice cracked at bit at the end.

"Fine." She was a bit squirmy as she found his nametag. "Very fine. How are you?"

"Good." That was all he really had.

"Good. You're good," she said, holding his hand a bit too long as she pressed his ID into his palm. She seemed to suddenly notice Izzie. "Um. Who is this?"

"This is Isobel Stevens. She's a co-worker." George felt the words escape, and as they did, he wanted them back.

"A co-worker?" The question came from both women, but with decidely divergent tones.

George felt a trickle of cold sweat at his hairline. "A friend." He looked at Izzie, who was shooting him full of holes. "A close friend. A close, personal friend."

"Well, it's great to see you...George." She seemed to study his suit, as her voice took on a breathiness. "Are you still in Seattle?"

"We're both interns at Seattle Grace," Izzie said, her eyes narrowing. She picked up a marker and wrote 'Isobel Stevens' across a blank tag.

"Wow. So...you're doctors? The two of you?"

"Working on it," George said.

"I guess you could say you were _practicing_," Wendy said, her lips tightening to hold back an escaping giggle. "It's funny, 'cause of the double meaning."

"Yeah, that's why," Izzie said flatly. She peeled the backing off the tag and crumpled it in her hand as she realized she didn't really have a place to put the label. She finally decided on a spot that was practically at the crest of her left shoulder.

"Listen, George," Wendy said, leaning forward. "Don't you dare leave before you have a drink with me. I would love to catch up with you."

"Maybe...possibly," George wheedled. "I can't promise anything."

"That's okay. I totally understand." She gave a bit of glance toward Izzie, then back at him. "See you inside, right?"

"Yeah. Maybe. Again, no promises or anything," he said, as Izzie hooked his arm and walked him to the heavy doors.

As soon as he was gone, Wendy Poore sat back in her chair and exhaled. Hard.

* * *

Izzie elbowed George in the ribs as they walked into the ballroom where it appeared that a mass of humanity had gathered to mill about and chatter. "Okay, what was that?" she asked, trying to be heard over the strains of a squealing guitar. 

George groaned. "Wendy? It was Senior Lit. She was my partner on a few plays the class had to read."

"Like?"

"Oh, man. Hamlet...I think. Maybe Death of a Salesman. Oh, and Streetcar Named Desire, for sure. I got to be Stanley. That was pretty fun, actually. I kinda got into it." He noticed the bar. "Oh, good - the liquor's close to the door." He motioned for the bartender.

"Yeah, but she was looking at you like - "

"What?" He pointed to a bottle of Jack Daniels. "Two of those."

Izzie grabbed him by the arm. "Like you were a steak and she hadn't eaten in weeks."

George's face was a blank. "Huh? Really?"

"Yes, really - " Izzie's head turned a bit. "Is that...Foreigner?"

George's brow furrowed as he listened. "Yeah, that's a Foreigner...song...oh, God..." His eyes suddenly darted to the stage at the far end of the ballroom, finding the band, playing their hearts out. He immediately raised two more fingers for the bartender's sake.

Izzie shook her head. "No, I mean, is that actually Foreigner?"

His shoulders shrunk as he downed his whiskey. "No...oh, no..."

The lead singer - a skinny, spiky-haired man wearing leather pants and a faded T-shirt - shouted into the microphone as the guitars whined to a finish, "Yeah! We are _Hot Blooded_! Make sure to vote for us so we can - Rock! The! Formal!" He punched the air as he hit each word, but when he hit the last, he stopped, and looked squarely at George, who was now trying to hide behind Izzie. A dazzling grin shot across his face. "Whoa, and speaking of 'Hot Blooded', I think I spy the one and only George O'Malley! The George walks among us!"

In the milling, buzzing crowd, not a few eyes turned their attention toward him. And then there was a rising sound; at first it didn't seem real, but it grew from scattered to wide-reaching, like a jet engine winding up for take-off.

It was **applause** - authentic, affectionate applause. There were even some whoops and hollers and wolf-whistles sprinkled through the ovation. Izzie's expression was one of a woman who had just been told that one plus one equaled North Dakota. "The George?" she asked the man who was desperate to disappear next to her.

George voice was gulpy. "Izzie, I swear to God..." Two more fingers went up.

The singer's face was impish. "We're gonna take a little break to fill our eyes with that 'Double Vision', and then we'll be back for the All-Band Jam later tonight! So 'til then, keep rock alive, Grizzlies!" His words were met with the best-possible boozy enthusiasm. Then he dashed from the stage and crossed the floor, pausing only once or twice to sign a photo or have his picture taken with someone, and all the while, his attention was on George.

"See, Izzie," George grunted. "See! This is why I - "

The singer was in their space before he could finish his thought. "The George!" he exclaimed.

"Hey, Dar," George said, pretending to be enthusiastic.

"Dar?" Izzie asked.

"No handshakes for my spiritual brother," Dar replied, wrapping his arms around George and giving him a rib-bruising bearhug. His eyes enveloped Izzie. "And who is this vision?"

"My..." George said, remembering the hallway, "...close, personal friend Izzie Stevens. Izzie? This is Dar Torvald."

"Again. _Dar?_"

He cupped her hand with his. "The name's actually Darrin. But Dar's more my on-stage persona."

"O - kaaay," Izzie replied. George pushed a laugh out, mostly for her benefit.

"As for you? Izzie?" Dar growled. "I like it. Very hot, very rock goddess-y of you. And I mean that with nothing but the purest intention. The George travels with none but the finest, and I salute him."

"Good to know," Izzie said.

George broke Dar's attention. "You guys sound...good," he said.

Dar smiled. "Thank you. And the guys thank you." He nodded over at his bandmates who were piling sandwiches onto plates. "Number one Foreigner tribute band in the Pacific Northwest, three years running." He did a fist pump, and the band members with free hands followed suit.

George chuckled. "What happened to _Jukebox Heroes_?"

"Broke up four years ago. Quitters." He smiled at George. "Incidentally, we miss that alto sax you used to blow for us. 'Urgent' just isn't as - urgent - without it."

"Alto?" Izzie asked.

"Sax. I was...a utility woodwind," George said sheepishly.

"Utility, hell," Dar snorted. "The George was the master. If it had a reed, he had the skill. You still play, right?"

George knew better than to make any admissions in front of Izzie. He shifted a little. "Well...just the...you know. And not that much, to tell you the truth."

"Fellow band geek, I am disappointed in you." Dar squinted at the two of them. "You see, Izzie, The George was among the founding fathers - with yours truly, natch - of the Student Sound. An association dedicated to life, liberty, and the pursuit of funked-up rock and roll. And which still exists and thrives today at Wilson High, thank you very much."

George shook his head. "It wasn't that big."

Dar chuckled in disbelief. "Not that big? The George is humble, I will give him that." Dar looked over at his lead guitarist. "Senior Jam, how many people?"

"Two. Maybe three."

Izzie smirked. "That's it?"

"Thousand. Two or three thousand." Dar had his own smirk. "We sold so many tickets, the school had to move it from the old recital hall to the football field. And The George was - dare I say - instrumental - in making it happen." Dar walked to the bar, and pointed to a bottle of Sam Adams.

Izzie leaned her lips into George's ear. "So your class was the last one to hear that puns suck all the joy out of conversations?" she whispered.

George smiled sadly. "I know, I shivered too."

"What?" Dar asked. "Something you want to share with the class?"

"Your vocals were tight - Izzie was really impressed," George lied. This earned him a deep hard squeeze of his palm.

"Really?" Dar asked. He seemed genuinely touched.

Izzie felt a smile form as she dug her nails in to George's flesh.

The band's drummer shouted from the table, "Yo, Dar! You want something to eat, you gotta get it now!"

Dar shook his head sadly. "And this where I take my leave." He squared his eyes on Izzie's. "Thank you for your kindness. And in return, I offer this: you are in the presence of greatness. Do not take this man for granted." He turned his attention to George. "And my boy, if you ever let _this_ tigress go - well, I don't have to say it, do I?"

"No," George said. If she pressed any harder, her hand would be _inside_ his.

"Didn't think so." Dar walked away, and turned back to throw one more fist pump at them. "Rock on!"

George caught it, half-heartedly. "Two more, please?" he asked the bartender.

"I don't think I've ever been called a tigress before," Izzie said, letting go of him. "Not even when I was modeling. And what did he mean by '_this_ tigress'?"

George blew a breath out through his teeth after downing another whiskey. "I'm sure I'm drawing a blank," he said.

Izzie looked at him. He was trying to hide again. "No, you aren't."

"Yes, I am," he said in his best offended voice. "I don't know who - I mean - you can't - oh, jeez - " George dropped his face onto the bar, just as the bartender was clearing his empty glasses. The landing sounded like it might have hurt a little.

Izzie was about to pull him up when a female voice - _no_, Izzie realized, _not just any female voice, but the voice from the lobby_ - broke into their conversation. "George O'Malley?" she said, in a tone not dissimilar to the one from earlier in the evening. It wasn't angry or hurt or disappointed, but rather it was almost - delighted. Even a bit joyful. Izzie turned to match a face with the voice, and her eyes met:

Flawless cinnamon skin. Flowing, shimmering hair. The longest legs she'd ever seen on an actual human woman. And a body that made her suddenly wish she hadn't let her gym membership expire.

George was still face down on the bar, and wasn't looking up. "Izzie Stevens, my close, personal friend - this is Jillian Martin, who was also at one time, my close, personal friend."

Jillian smiled at Izzie. It was remarkably warm and sweet, so much so that it made Izzie feel a little squishy inside. "You're the girl from the elevator?" she asked.

An alarm was clanging in Izzie's head. "Yes," she squeaked.

Jillian's smile didn't fade. "Lucky," she said.

George finally looked up, but not at the women. "Bartender?" he said weakly, raising two fingers.

* * *

_**To Be Continued...**_


	4. Chapter 4

**One Thing Leads To Another**

_**Tom Sez:** My Number One story, all-time, on this site - and the best is yet to be! Thank you, O Kind Readers!_

_DISCLAIMER: Many fine and talented people work hard every day to put together Grey's Anatomy. And I gotta go and do this._

* * *

**FOUR**

George awoke with a start, mainly because of a sunbeam that was peeking through a crack in the curtain, and stabbing him in the eye. His mouth was sticky and dry and tasted of whiskey and pretzels and whiskey and the foulest nacho-slash-cream cheese dip -

"Nngg," he grunted. He rolled over in bed, and his eyes caught a glimpse of a painting on the wall. What is that style called, he thought. _Post-modernism_, his mind replied. _But you don't really know anything about paintings_, it added;_ I'm just making that up_. _The real question you should be asking, Georgie-boy_, his brain continued, _is 'what is it doing here', seeing as you don't have a single painting in your room._

A rush of water in the bathroom made him sit up and put his feet on the floor. His toes found something soft. Silky. He looked down.

Panties under his right foot. Black panties on the beige carpet.

"Oh..." George muttered. "...oh, God..."

The water's hiss stopped. The bathroom door opened.

Jillian stepped into the doorway, plush bath towels swathing her hair and her shape. Tucked tight, like they had been sewn on. "'Morning," she purred. "**Tiger**."

George felt his insides turn to liquid. "Hey, Jill," he said, trying with all of his might not to look at her.

She stalked toward him, a pout on her lips. "'_Hey_'? That's all I get?"

George was choking. "I - "

She crawled onto the bed, and rested her chin on his shoulder. "The morning after you completely changed my world? After you raised me to new heights of ecstasy? After you made me a brand new - " Then she stopped. A hard laugh escaped. "I'm sorry. I almost made it through."

Again? Another 'friend' jerking him around? "Dammit, Jill...I don't believe this..." he glowered, standing up. At first he hadn't noticed if he was wearing anything, then felt a breeze about himself, then found his arms pulling the blanket around his body. "If it's not you screwing with me, it's - how come I have to be the adult here?"

"Adult?" Jillian asked as she tucked her legs under herself. "Who was it that led the class sing-along until everyone was hoarse? Who volunteered his services as a 'sax machine' during the jam session?"

"You can't bring up stuff I did in high school, Jill. Not this morning."

"I'm talking about the mixer, you doof." Jillian shook her head. "And you asked to sleep in my bed last night. I accommodated you."

"Accommodated?" George asked. "What's that mean?"

"You don't know."

"No," he said.

Jillian laughed again. "How much did you drink last night?"

George steadied himself against the night table. "A lot, I'm guessing."

"We didn't leave the ballroom until after one. You kept the party going, my friend. And when you took the stage, every girl in that room was swooning." Jillian paused, her eyes warm and bright. "Except for Izzie. She looked like she'd been hit in the back of the head with a brick." She looked at George for a moment. "She doesn't know you sing?"

"Please say I didn't..." It was begging in vain.

"You did."

"'If You Don't Know Me By Now'?" he squeaked.

Jillian's smile was dazzling - as it always had been. Somehow this morning, though, it was moreso. "Very nice, by the way. I'd forgotten that you have especially good drunk pipes." She seemed to be savoring the memory. "Most of the way through, you were fine. Then you seemed to get really emotional, and you shouted about an undying sexual appetite, and about a woman named Kelly or Carly or - "

"Callie..." George moaned.

"Yeah, that's the one. You dedicated the song to her, then high-fived the Nickname Boys as Dar was helping you off the stage. You were out of your head."

"Oh, brother." George sat on the bed again. "So how did I end up here?"

"Izzie was - well - kinda dizzy after all that whole production. So she asked Dar and me to take care of you, that she was heading up to the room." Her eyes half-lidded. "You and she are - "

"Friends." George said, looking Jillian in the eye. "Close, personal friends. That's all, I swear."

"Easy, O'Malley. No judgments here." She gave him a coy half-smile. "Especially from someone who once shared a hotel room with you." She shook her head. "Nothing happened between us, by the way. Dar put you on the bed and you were out like a light."

"So who undressed me?"

"Me. Sort of." She smoothed his hair. Her touch was tender. "You honestly do not remember anything from last night, do you?"

"Well..." He pursed his lips. "Did I...jump in a pool?"

"No," Jillian said gently. "You went down the slide."

* * *

Christina wasn't surprised to see Izzie standing in Meredith's kitchen this morning. In fact, at least two people now owed her ten bucks each. It was what the blonde had blurted to her fellow interns gathered around the breakfast nook that nearly caused Christina to choke on her non-fat latte. "George was what?" she coughed, grabbing for a pile of napkins. 

"Cool in high school," Izzie replied, incredulous. "Can you believe it? He was cool." She poured milk over a bowlful of corn flakes.

"I can believe that." Meredith said as she buttered a piece of toast. She looked up, then frowned at everyone else's frowns. "What?"

"And he was popular," Izzie added. "Not a little popular. Mr. Popular."

Meredith shook her head. "He's George. We all like him." The groans from Alex and Christina were in unison. "We like him. Don't make me charge you for eating my food."

"Okay, fine. I can accept that he was liked. But." Izzie seemed to wind up for this final declaration. "He was also - so help me God - lusted after," she said, her voice dropping an octave.

"Seriously?" The question was in unison.

"Every woman there knew his name. It was spoken in hushed tones. I got the dirtiest looks..." Izzie scanned her friends' unbelieving expressions. "I met his Senior Prom date. Drop dead gorgeous, former captain of the varsity cheerleaders, now engaged to a jet-setting millionaire, has the world at her feet - and if you saw this woman, you'd understand why - and looking at George made her eyes sparkle."

Christina's eyebrows furrowed. "Sparkle?"

"Like two little disco balls."

Meredith's voice was oddly quiet. "So she had a thing for him."

"Not past-tense 'had'. Present tense. 'Has.'" Izzie found a kitchen chair and sat down.

Alex shook his head. "For O'Malley? Weird."

"I know," Izzie said. "I thought I had been knocked unconscious, or fell into another dimension, or it was some kind of practical joke to get back at me."

"For what?" Meredith asked.

"Nothing," Izzie replied.

Alex frowned. "She told you she still - you know?"

"No," Izzie said. "But a woman knows these things. A look in her eyes. The way she laughed at every one of his off-hand remarks. She touched his arm, like, all night long."

"His arm, huh?" Alex smirked. "I'm surprised she didn't just bang him right there in front of you."

"Nice, Alex." Izzie said. "But, yeah, me too."

* * *

Jillian and George sat across from each other. He was nervously readjusting his blanket, trying to keep it from untucking, but she was simply resting on the bed, unconcerned about any of her wraps. "Who is Callie?" she asked. 

"A doctor I know," George replied. "Very beautiful...funny...sexy, down-to-earth. I like her a lot." He shrugged. "She's very mad at me right now."

"Because of Izzie?"

"No." George said. "Yes."

Jillian cocked her head to remove the towel from her hair. "Tell me about that one. She's a knockout. And kinda sweet, too."

George was distracted for an instant as her long locks cascaded over her glowing shoulders, then said, "Yeah. Yeah. She was a model."

A smile of recognition. "That's where I know her from. She did those lingerie ads that were everywhere our senior year."

"Yeah. She sure did." George cleared his throat. "She's a doctor now, though. A good, good doctor. No more ads or anything."

She tousled her mane. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Not telling you?" He wasn't sure he'd actually heard her right. To his eyes, she seemed to be moving in slow motion, which was making him antsier and antsier.

"There's more," she said.

"No, there isn't," he replied.

"You're kidding." Jillian swung her bare legs out from under herself. "She looked like she wanted to strangle me all night long. I put a hand on you to keep you from falling over and she practically took a swing at me."

George shook his head, trying not to stare at the toned curve of her calves. "She's - she's - protective. We've been friends for a while now, and in the program, you have to have people who watch out for you. I've got lots of people like that around me. Really. Lots and lots."

* * *

"Why do you care?" Alex asked, spooning the last bite of cereal into his mouth. 

"Why?" Izzie found herself stuck for an answer. "Why are you here?"

"Carpool. How about you?" Suddenly the trio realized they needed to be heading out.

It was a valid question, one that Izzie felt compelled to answer. "I had to leave. Everyone was looking at us, looking at him, looking at me. All these guys are giving him chest bumps and high fives, calling him 'The George' - "

"'The George'?" Christina asked, finding her keys.

"Yeah," Izzie said.

"Oh, God, I am _so_ using that on him," Alex said with a smirk.

" - and woman after woman was swooning as he sang - "

"Swooning?" Meredith asked, grabbing her keys.

"_Singing?_" Christina added, pulling a jacket over her shoulders. "That one's mine, Karev."

"Yes and yes. The weirdness of all of it...it's just too much," she said. "I'm not going back," she added firmly.

Meredith fixed her eyes on Izzie. "You volunteer to go with him to this thing."

"Forced her way in, actually," Alex corrected, as he walked out.

"Thank you, Alex. You force him to take you, all hurt and angry that he didn't ask. Then you go, and you find out that he wasn't a social leper - "

Izzie tried to sound indignant. "There's no way I could've seen that coming - "

Meredith continued, as if she didn't hear the interruption, " - and now, you're ducking out? Without saying anything to him? What kind of best friend are you?"

"You weren't there. You didn't see what I saw." Izzie leaned close to the others. "He played in a Foreigner tribute band, whose lead singer is named Dar."

"Dar?" Christina asked.

"Yep," Izzie replied.

Christina chuckled sadly, and she headed for the door.

"Well, then," Meredith said, as she followed Christina out, "I guess you were totally justified in abandoning him."

Then Izzie was alone again. She frowned. "The man calls himself Dar, for Pete's sake..." she muttered.

* * *

A fist pounded on the room door. "Jill? Is our boy alive?" 

"Yes, Dar," she replied. "I'm going to put on some clothes. Go humor your pal." Jillian grabbed a garment bag and disappeared into the bathroom again. George dragged himself and the blanket across the room. He unlocked the door and opened it.

Dar looked different in the cold light of day. Shorter. Older. He held out a plastic bag. "I bring you pants and a T-shirt, my liege," he said. He stuck his head in the room. "Is she here?"

"Jill?" George said, unpacking the clothes.

"Jill. Izzie." Dar's eyes danced. "Whomever else decided to join the festivities."

"Jill's in the bathroom," George said, pulling up his pants and fastening them. "And she's the only one."

"The only one - your one and only." Dar let out a howl. "Jill, you vixen!"

"Get out of my room, Dar!" she cried from behind the bathroom door. "And take The George with you!"

"Live to serve," Dar replied, herding George into the hallway. George tugged the shirt down over his bare chest as they walked to the elevator.

"What floor is this?" George asked, looking around at the framed art on the walls.

"Fifteen." Dar glanced at his friend. "Jill's still a megafox, isn't she?"

George sighed. "Yes," he replied softly.

"Better than ever, methinks." Dar hit the down button.

"Yes. The years have been more than kind to her."

"Mm-hm." Dar smirked. "Enough BS, man. I need details."

"Details?"

"Yeah, you hound," Dar laughed. The elevator arrived, and they stepped on board. "The babes were eating out of your hand last night. Then Izzie bailed, Jillie helped me take you back to her room, not yours, and pushed me out as fast as she could. It was completely - I'm in awe. As always. So?"

George shook his head. "Nothing happened."

"Nothing?"

"No," George said firmly. "We slept in the same bed. Slept. And nothing else."

"Okay," Dar replied. "You're taking it slow, then. You've learned from us mortals."

"Dar..."

"Fine. Subject change." Dar's shoulders slumped. "You missed the breakfast."

"I did, didn't I? Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Dar said. "Or rather, do apologize, because I had to sit there with my band and bite my tongue during the heart-felt tributes to teachers I couldn't stand all those years ago. And then - we got screwed." His frown was pronounced. "You know who's playing the formal tonight? CoverBoyz."

George's head turned at that. "Those hacks?"

"Oh, yeah. They won in a landslide." Dar muttered. "Eleven votes to five."

George was stunned. "Sixteen people voted? But there had be seventy, eighty people at the mixer."

"Yep. Where did civic pride go, George?" Dar sighed. "Respect for good citizenship and duty - it's wasted on our generation."

George yawned and rubbed his eyes as the elevator doors opened on his floor. "I need a shower. I'm going to my room - "

Dar's smile spread across his face. "From Jillie, back to Izzie...from one tasty dish to another...it's like you're the guest of honor at a babe banquet, man..."

"Focus, Dar," George groaned as he stepped off, with Dar at his heels. "She is my friend. There is nothing going on between us. Between any of us."

"Okay, okay. Sheesh." Dar rolled his eyes. "O'Malley The Grouch this morning."

George reached his door, and shoved his hand into the pants pocket. "Where's my keycard?" he wondered out loud.

"Bang!" Dar said, slapping it into his hand.

"Don't do that," George groaned. He inserted the card in the lock, and turned the knob. He had a sudden memory flash:

_Izzie. Cocktail dress. "Doctor O'Malley."_

"Hey," George said. "Could you maybe head to the lobby and see if my folks are downstairs yet?"

"I am but your humble servant." Dar turned and started back to the elevator, then said, "Are you thinking she might be naked? Maybe coming out of the shower, all hot and soaking wet, or something. 'Cause if she is, that would be _awesome_."

George actually hadn't considered that particular imagery: Izzie coming out of the bathroom, blonde hair saturated, discarding a wet towel that was clinging to every inch of her, and walking past the door just as he opened it, causing Dar's lower jaw to drop to the floor with a loud_ thunk_. He bit the inside of his lip. It had begun to play over and over in his mind's eye. "Just go to the lobby, please," he said, trying to shake the sequence out of his head.

"Going, O Great One," Dar said, disappearing down the hall.

George said a silent prayer and stepped inside.

* * *

Izzie sat on the couch and tried to read a book. Two pages in, she gave up on it and tried to find a magazine she hadn't read. No luck. She lifted the remote control from the coffee table and flipped around the dial for a minute or two before quitting. 

Why did she feel guilty? There was no one to blame here but him. He never said who he was. He had tried to hide it, in fact. That she had taken pity on him, thrown her support behind him, agreed to go with him - she could not be held responsible. She would not be held responsible.

She pressed the play button on the answering machine again.

"Hello? Hello?" His voice sounded distant. "Guess I missed...dammit...um, if you're there, Izzie, or if you get this...I understand. Believe me, I understand. 'Bye." A pause. "It's George." Then the beep.

Izzie sighed. _Damn you, George O'Malley_, she thought as she wondered if she had anything in her closet that would qualify as a ball gown.

* * *

**_TO BE CONTINUED..._**


	5. Chapter 5

**One Thing Leads To Another**

_**Tom Sez:** This story is such pure pleasure to write, I'm delighted - practically giddy, in fact (a disturbing image to those who know and love me, and to the rest of y'all, I'm sure) - to know that so many people out there in Internet-land enjoy it. Thanks to you, O Kind Reader, for all your wonderful words of encouragement - I'm honored. There's a little more drama in this chapter than in the previous ones, but plenty of laughs, too. (At least, I **hope** so...) _

**_Dizzle-Clizzle:_ **Grey's Anatomy. _Buy the DVDs. Watch new ones Thursday nights on ABC. Purchase multiples of all products advertised during the show. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. And remember, as you are reading this, you are reading this... _

**

* * *

FIVE **

George stayed in the shower longer than usual. By now at home, there'd be either a gaggle of women waiting impatiently for him to exit, or worse, that sudden horrible temperature shift that would make him yelp. But not here. Lots of hot water, and even more time to enjoy it. He stretched his neck and back muscles under the steady streams. Very nice, he thought. Very relaxing. He reached for the soap sliver that had been provided by the hotel.

The scent of it reminded him of Jillian - a few minutes ago, freshly scrubbed and long-limbed and crawling across the bed -

His brain started unfolding the scenario, then extrapolating..._and extrapolating_..._**and extrapolating**..._

Stop doing that, he told his imagination. Not the time, not the place. The inappropriate - okay, downright dirty - thoughts faded as he tried to remember the night before.

Speaking of inappropriate. He'd had many, many drinks...did some things...said some things...

Someone called out for 'Urgent' - one of the Nickname Boys, maybe - then it seemed like the whole crowd started chanting for it. For him. Next thing he knew, he had a sax in his hands and he was playing it. Playing the hell out of it, even.

Then he was at the microphone, wailing into it. Digging down deep for emotion.

By the time Dar was helping him out of the chlorine-clouded pool, the crowd had gone crazy. Fever pitch. Cheering him. Begging for more.

He saw Izzie's face. Plain in front of his. Amazed. Transfixed. And not in a good way. She vanished before he felt lukewarm pool water rush up his pant legs.

Jillian was smiling, though. That bright, broad expression of hers was like a lighthouse lantern through the fog.

So much like Callie's...

_...extrapolating...extrapolating...**stop it**..._

Callie would've had fun last night. She wouldn't have just abandoned him there.

That's what had surprised him the most. Not that Izzie had left - the look on her face was the clearest indication that she would have preferred a week-long root canal over spending time with his schoolmates. But leaving without telling him? When he'd entered the room, and noticed that Izzie was gone, instead of being relieved, he'd felt a little pit form in his stomach. He called home. He left a message. He had actually been hurt in that moment.

Wait a second, he thought. Why would I be hurt?

It was good that Izzie left. He hadn't wanted her here to begin with. She had all the reasons in the world to leave. If it wasn't the rubbernecking she was getting from the half-assed wannabe Romeos, it was the stares and whispers from the other women. Not to mention that he was back to being The George, as Dar seemed to be crying out at every turn.

I'm fine with her gone, he thought. I'm _better_ than fine.

The phone rang. George nearly broke his neck rushing from the shower in an effort to answer it. And against his internal logic, "Izzie?" he found himself asking.

"Yes, my little turtledove," a faux female voice responded.

"Dar..." George groaned.

The caller insisted on continuing the charade. "No, it's your close, personal friend, just letting you know your parents are here, and I'm about to embarrass you big time if you don't quit living the swinging bachelor lifestyle and bring your big, strong self down to the banquet room...like now." Dar's voice was back to its proper register.

"I'm on my way."

Dar sounded confused. "Why'd you ask for Izzie? She's not there?"

"No. She's not."

"Did she have to go to work or something?"

"I - I don't know," George replied.

"Hm. Well, I wouldn't worry about it," Dar said. "I'm sure that she's just super pissed at you, and hates you with every fiber of her being, and will never ever forgive you for whatever it was that you did." A beat. "Wanna know what I think it was?"

"No," George said. "No, I don't."

"Big deal. I wasn't going to tell you anyway. Now get some clothes on and get down here, before I start making a scene. Or tell your folks about the one you made last night."

"Be there in a minute."

"Sure. And George?"

Why wouldn't Dar let him get dressed? "What?!"

"When you get here, I want to know who that Callie chick is."

It hadn't occurred to George until that moment how similar Dar was to Alex. "What? Why?"

"Pallie, you dedicated a song to her. No, I'm wrong." Another beat, for emphasis. "You dedicated The Song to her. I think that merits at least a bit of backstory."

* * *

Callie was - against her will - thinking about George O'Malley. She was sitting at a cafeteria table, drinking coffee, going over a chart she'd already finished, and all of a sudden, his face popped into her mind. George, all sweet and sad and sheepish - the same expression he'd been giving her for the last umpteen days when she'd see him at work. She bit into her lip to rid herself of the vision. It only made him talk. 

"So," Imaginary George said, "are you just gonna stay mad at me forever or what?"

Leave me alone, she thought.

"So," he repeated, "are you just gonna stay mad at me forever or what?"

I don't know, she replied to her conjuring.

"That's not an answer."

You don't answer me, she grimaced. When I say things - big things - you don't answer me.

"Play fair. You don't know what's going on in my head."

And yet you're all up in mine.

He laughed a little. "You brought me here. I'm really at a hotel somewhere, at that thing that you've been hearing about all morning."

Yeah. That reunion. Grey and Yang and Karev were talking about it. Whispering. Giggling about it, like little kids.

He seemed concerned. "You're angry at them, aren't you?"

When am I not angry at them about you? I really wish you'd get that. They hurt your feelings, they call you names, they laugh at you, and you - you just let them. It drives me up the wall, George, straight up the wall. That's what makes me mad at you.

"So," he said, "are you just gonna stay mad at me forever or what?"

"Doctor Torres?" an unimagined voice asked. Callie looked up and saw Miranda Bailey standing across from her. She was giving her colleague something of a sideways glance. "I thought you were off. You all right?"

"No. I mean, yes. I'm just - distracted."

Bailey frowned. "About?"

Callie shook her head. "You don't wanna hear about my problems."

"No, I don't. But since I'm here, I might as well." Bailey closed her eyes, like she didn't want to risk seeing herself saying what she was about to say. "It's a boy problem, isn't it?"

"Yes," Callie admitted.

"And that boy is one of my interns, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"The one that isn't here." Bailey held a finger out. "Don't say yes - I'd like to keep this rhetorical."

Callie nodded. "What do I do?" Her question was quiet.

Bailey sighed. "That boy is - well, he's that boy." She narrowed her eyes at Callie. "Do you care about him?"

"Yes," Callie said softly.

Bailey took a moment to reply. "Then do what you gotta do," she said.

Callie looked the other woman in the eye. "But what's that?"

"How should I know? But I'm pretty sure it doesn't involve sitting here. Especially when you'd rather be somewhere else." Bailey gave her a small, apologetic smile, then walked away.

Callie heard George again. "Doctor Burke knows where I am," he said. "And he'd probably tell you."

* * *

"Georgie!" was the cry from his mother as he walked into the banquet hall, past the balloons and assorted festoonery. He'd merely heard the voice first, then his eyes caught her merry expression and wild wave. His father was just behind her, a hand on her shoulder, as if he was trying to keep her from becoming airborne. Just off to their side was Dar, who had managed to find a shirt and tie - sure, the shirt was sleeveless, but at least he'd made an effort. 

He sighed a bit, and put on a brave face. "Hi, Mom. Dad. Dar found you, I see."

"He sure did," his father said. "Where are your folks, Mr. Torvald?"

Dar chuckled. "On vacation. Their annual pilgrimage to Norway. So, for nine days, got the whole house to myself. Loud parties, beautiful women, it's the sweet life. I'd invite The George, but I know you don't want my negative influence affecting his bright, bright future." Dar grinned. "Also, I don't have his number. Or know where he lives."

"There's a reason for that," George said.

"I figured as much." Dar looked at George's parents. "All I can say is it's been a treat seeing my old, old, old friend here. And I am hopeful that the next time I see him, it won't be at his funeral. Or at mine. Either way."

"You two boys. Same as you were in high school."

"God, I hope not," the duo replied, in perfect unison - which led to a giggle fit.

"See? I told you, Georgie," she said. "You'd be happy you came."

"You sure did," he replied. He was surprised that he actually felt like he meant it.

"Say, George, Dar was telling me that you brought Izzie to this," his dad said. "Where is she? I'd like to introduce her to your mom."

"Izzie?" she asked, her eyes brighter. "Who's Izzie?"

"His roommate, Louise. Remember? I've told you about her."

"Roommate?"

"They're friends," his dad said.

"Yep. Close, personal friends," Dar added.

"A real cutie," George's dad said. "I don't see her. You didn't leave her in the room, did you?"

George's mouth went dry. "No, uh, Dad. She's - she's not here, actually. She left."

"Oh." His dad seemed crestfallen. "What happened?"

"Well, uh - "

"Paged," Dar piped up. "She got paged. Last night. During the mixer. She had a patient who - uh - had an emergency - uh - what was it called?" He looked at George.

George scanned his banks for something that would sound bad - and pulled nothing but air. "I can't remember."

"Me neither. My mind's a blank. Anyway, she had to go to work," Dar said, adding quickly, "But she said that she'd probably be able to be back tonight."

"Actually, probably not." George shook his head. "If her emergency was what I think it was, then she might be stuck at the hospital all weekend." He shrugged.

"Well, that's a shame. You'd like her, Louise," Mr. O'Malley said. "Just a doll."

* * *

Izzie had tried to make it to her bedroom to search for a gown to wear to the formal, but for some reason, had found herself stalling. She'd stood up, left the couch, and wandered toward her door at least four times in the last hour, but she always wound up back in the living room, flopped on the heavy cushions, not sure why she was coming back. 

Okay. That wasn't true.

See, day after day, Izzie Stevens would wake up, take a shower, brush her teeth, then stand in front of her closet. The dread would hit as her fingers touched the handle to pull the door open; a wave of sadness that would roll into her belly and make her feel nauseous. She had stood in front of this same closet some weeks before, studied her options, and finally selected a floor-length gown for a night she would never be able to forget, no matter how long she lived, or how hard she tried. The night of the prom. The night she lost Denny.

She honestly didn't know where that dress had gone after she'd finally shed it. Her memories of the days and nights afterward had blurred and blended and swirled together - it was an out-of-focus movie with a smudgy, muddy print. Her greatest fear was that it would be hanging right there in the center of her closet, where she couldn't miss it, couldn't ignore it, couldn't avoid it. And it would be touching everything else. Contaminating everything else.

So, day after day, she'd reach for the closet door, feel the sick sadness, then decide to wear something from the dresser.

Now she was thinking about being at the closet door again, with that knotted and gnarled feeling in her belly. She wanted to run. To chicken out. Just go back to the couch and sit down - and forget about the reunion. George would forgive her - he would have to, sooner or later. Right?

His message echoed in her head. It was filled with the ache of defeat. Disappointment. Loneliness. Those were sounds that Izzie was finding more and more painful to hear, and unfortunately, his voice was playing in a never-ending loop.

It forced her to think about him. About the depth of his friendship. How he stayed with her while she laid on a cold bathroom floor, so deep in her mourning that she had begun to believe in her heart that she would simply die there. He didn't force her to talk. He didn't shy away when she needed to speak. He didn't try to make her do anything she wasn't ready to do. Sure, Meredith and Christina and Alex would take their turns - it was their collective strength that brought her back from the brink - but right now the only person's face she saw clearly from that horrific time belonged to George.

Meredith had been right. She drove him into this; she was damn well going to drive him out.

_Damn you, George O'Malley_, she thought again.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and walked to her room.

* * *

The luncheon had gone much better than George would ever have hoped. His dad had talked proudly, even eloquently, of George's medical exploits. "My boy saved a man's life in a stalled elevator," he'd proclaimed, tears in his eyes. "He performed open-heart surgery by himself and saved a man's life." This had earned enthusiastic applause and a few whistles, and only one or two kicks under the table from Dar, who had actually managed to avoid mentioning a word about the night before. 

George was beginning to feel confident about the rest of the day, when he noticed that Dar was trying to stifle a grin. He shot the other man a puzzled look - plus a returned tap on the shin - and at the same precise moment heard a voice over his shoulder.

"Harold? Louise? Remember me?"

"Oh, my goodness," Mrs. O'Malley beamed. "Jillie Martin?"

George kicked Dar under the table, who laughed and yelped at the same time. "H - how - ow - are you?" he asked, his voice spiking.

George's mom gave Dar a confused look, then pushed away from the table and walked to embrace Jillian. "Harold, look at this young woman," she said, presenting her to Mr. O'Malley. "What is your secret, and how much does it cost?"

"I just wanted to stop by, say hello," she said shyly.

"Well, hello," Mrs. O'Malley said, squeezing Jillian again. "Harold. Doesn't she look splendid?"

"Still a head-turner," his dad said, his eyes warm. "George, don't be rude. Say hello."

George could see Dar trying to stifle a building laughing fit. He flashed a baleful smile and turned his head, hearing Dar snorting and coughing, struggling in vain to cover up.

She was more of a vision to his eyes now than this morning. Shining black hair pulled back into a pony tail so you could every angle of her exquisite face. Blue jeans that seemed tailor-made to flatter her. And a sweater..._oh, my...a sweater..._

_**...extrapolating...**_

Even as deep into his reverie as he was, he could hear Dar's high-pitched giggle start. George was about to put a stop to it. He dug in to his seat, and swung his right leg away from his body as hard as he could.

_**Clang.**_

"**OWWW!**" George cried, seeing red, flashing stars. He rolled off the chair on to the floor, eyes wide with shock, jaw muscles straining.

His parents were immediately poised over him, faces heavy with concern. "What's the matter?"

Tears were flowing out of his eyes. "I - oh, **OW!** - hit my shin on the - **OW!** - table leg!" He shot a rabid look at Dar, who was heaving with laughter.

"Dar?! What's going on?!" Mrs. O'Malley demanded, as George's dad tried to assess the injury.

"Nothing - nothing at all." Dar stood up, face reddening, trying again to keep his pealing laugh inside. "I'll see you on the - on the - I'll see you," he managed to choke as he quick-marched his way out of the banquet hall.

"That boy," George's mom said as she watched him leave. "He hasn't grown up one bit."

Jillian looked into George's teary eyes as she and Mr. O'Malley knelt next to him. "No, Louise," she said, a strangely warm and sexy smile on her lips. "He certainly hasn't."

* * *

_**TO BE CONTINUED...**_


	6. Chapter 6

**One Thing Leads To Another**

_**Tom Sez:** Anybody else here ever get started in one direction and find themselves suddenly moving in another? Not that it's a bad thing...I actually like it quite a lot when my characters start doing and saying things that I didn't see coming...but for some reason this particular course change has presented me with a surprising amount of heavy lifting. My first couple of drafts were exceedingly long. More emotional, too, with some fairly dark material popping up. Experience has taught me that in order to get back on track, I have to let the story go, so I have. This, as you have likely predicted, has made the drafts** longer**. But I believe they are also stronger and richer for the extra effort I've put in. Plus, the new length has presented me with an opportunity to break one chapter into several, which - I hope - will allow me to bring updates to y'all a little faster than usual. (Again, I bow to you, O Readers, and thank you for your Kindness._)

_Dsclmr: No matter how much they beg, I will not claim responsibility for something I didn't create and don't own. A cash payout, that's a different story. _

* * *

**SIX**

Harold O'Malley had hooked his arm around his son's waist, and was helping him support his weight. They worked their way down the hall gingerly, as George protested between muffled grunts. "I'm fine, Dad," he said, not sounding as sure as he'd planned.

"You are not," his father replied. "Open your door."

George groaned, partially from the pain. "I can't reach my keycard."

"I can," Jillian said.

George turned with a start to see her standing next to them. Where'd she come from?

"The other elevator," she said.

"Oh," he replied. Mind-reading was not a gift he wanted her to possess. Reaching into his pants pockets was a close second on that list. "Just - just gimme a minute," he said. He shifted his weight a little, and fished the keycard from his front pocket. Once inside, the senior O'Malley man set George on the edge of the bed, as Jillian watched from the door.

Mr. O'Malley started to pull up the pant leg. George sucked air in through his teeth. "Okay. One. That hurts - stop doing it. Two. You're not going to get a good look at it that way. Three. I'm fine."

"George, I am not leaving you wounded."

"Wounded? I am not - "

"George," Jillian said. "Let your dad look at your leg."

"Jillian, I am a doctor. I passed my boards. I know that my leg is - ow, ow..."

"Let me look at it, Georgie. Please. To put my mind at rest, at least."

George looked at his father's concerned face, then exhaled hard, through his teeth. "Okay. But Jillian's gotta leave."

"Be polite, Georgie," his dad said.

"Dad, my pants are going to have to..." George lowered his voice. "...come off..."

"Oh, please," Jillian said. "I have seen you without pants before."

"Hey!" George cried.

"It was completely innocent, Harold," she added. "He chose to go swimming..."

"Fine, fine." George's exasperation was plain. "But if I hear so much as a whistle..." He unbuckled his belt, and lowered his trousers. His dad grasped the pant legs gently and moved them past his ankles.

And there George was, pantsless, his stomach beginning to knot. He wondered what it must look like - the image of him in his boxers, sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, his father examining his shin while an incredibly beautiful woman studied the sight. Jillian again seemed to be reading his mind, and gave him another knowing smile.

George's dad was staring at the purpling shape on the white flesh. "That bruise is gonna be as big as your fist," he pronounced.

George swung his legs onto the mattress. "It's just a - mmhhmm - bruise."

Mr. O'Malley pointed to George's face. "See that, Jillian? That's a pained expression."

"It certainly is, Harold," she replied. "Can I help?"

"No," George muttered.

"Yes," his dad said. "Get me something cold to put on it."

"A washcloth," George said. "Just a wrung-out washcloth."

"Okay," Jillian said, and headed for the bathroom.

Mr. O'Malley looked at his son again. "What happened?"

"I wanted Dar to stop laughing. So I tried to kick him." George shrugged. "I got the table leg instead."

"No kidding." The older O'Malley squinted at his son. "Why was Dar laughing? Was it about Jillie?"

"No," George lied.

"Then why?"

"Dad, it's Dar," George groaned. "Who knows with him?"

Mr. O'Malley sighed. "Okay. So you're done for the day."

George frowned. "Done? No."

His dad's face registered surprise. "What? You're hurt. You need to rest."

"I need to finish." The younger O'Malley's voice was determined. "Go to the school, the formal. Plus, I already have my tuxedo, and the deposit was non-refundable..."

"Georgie, what has gotten into you?" his father asked, concern trickling in to his tone.

"What?"

The older man shook his head at his son. "First you fought tooth and nail with your mother about how you didn't want to do any of this, then you decide to go - kicking and screaming - and now you get hurt and you don't have to go anywhere, so you..." Mr. O'Malley's voice trailed off. "I honestly don't know what to say."

"Dad..." George tried to find the right words, and did. "I'd forgotten what I was capable of."

His son's response caught the elder O'Malley off-guard. "Capable? I don't understand. You've been able to do anything you put your mind to. You decided when you were ten years old that you were going to be a doctor...and you did it. You went and did it. If that's not being capable..."

"That's not what I mean, Dad." George took a moment. "College and medical school and being an intern - it's all learning and watching and following. I forgot that I could be an example, and not just of how not to do something. I forgot that...I can be a leader."

The older man sighed. "And you think hobbling around your old high school on a bum leg is going to help you remember how to do that?"

"I'm already remembering," George replied. "As strange as it seems, this reunion is bringing it all back to me."

George's dad eyeballed his son for a few seconds, then said, "All right. But who's going to watch out for you?"

Jillian appeared, a well-wrung cloth clutched in her slender fingers. "I will. If nobody minds," she said.

* * *

Izzie's stomach was no longer pained. In fact, she felt quite free. The closet doors were wide open, and she had picked through everything. Unfortunately, to say the pickings were slim would be generous... 

The emerald halter? Way too slinky.

The navy tea-length? Too short, and four years out of style.

And the neon orange strapless? How that nightmare found its way in there, she had no clue.

She needed something else. Something that would make George feel understood and appreciated. Something that only a best friend would wear.

But what? She thought for a second, then grabbed a jacket.

* * *

Dar was still trying to regain his composure when he reached his car. George's shocked expression hung in his vision, and was blocking out almost everything else. 

Until he noticed the blonde perched on the rear bumper.

"Izzie?" he asked, his voice brimming with disbelief and delight as he drew close to her. "How did you find my car?"

She snorted. "You wouldn't shut up about it. 'George, you should see the Camaro. The old Camaro still runs great...still a chick magnet...still this...still that.' Color me still disappointed."

"Wait," he said. "Don't speak. Just let me drink you in."

She smiled at him, then punched his arm. "Okay," he said, a wince twisting his lips. "I'm full. Or am I?"

She slugged him again. "Yes," Izzie said.

"Power of positive thinking, and she appears," he said. "Like an angel. Or is it a devil?"

"Shut up," she said, winding up for another swing.

"I was hoping you'd say that," he said, immediately flinching and covering his arm.

"Look, Darrin - "

"_Darrin._ Ouch," Dar moaned. "Parking garage fantasy's shot to hell."

Izzie glared at him. "I'm not here for you - as you and your chickeny arms can plainly tell."

"Chickeny? I'll have you know that once upon a time - "

"I do not care, Dar," she snapped.

He sighed. "So they all come crawling back to The George. What is it about him? The floppy charm? The puppy-dog eyes? The Mr. Sensitive vibe? I get it - I really think I do - but - "

Izzie frowned. "No one's crawling back to anyone." Her eyes met his. "Okay, maybe a little," she corrected. "Point is, George is my best friend. I hurt his feelings. I know what I need to do to fix what I screwed up...but I don't know what to wear."

"Wear?" Dar asked.

"To the formal," she replied.

Dar gave her a sideways glance. "Do I look like an expert on women's fashion in the slightest?"

"No. But you are an expert on George."

"So that's why you came to see me." His eyes lit up. "You got freaked out. You saw George O'Malley - for the first time, maybe - as a powerful, confident individual. As his own man. That's why you left." He chuckled. "That's - that's just sad."

"Sad? What do you mean by that?"

Izzie could see the cartoon lightbulb flash on over Dar's head as he said to her, "Get in the car."

"What? Why?"

Dar was in full gear. "Get in the car. I wanna show you something."

Izzie gritted her teeth. "I swear I will break every bone in your body if you - "

"This isn't a pass," he growled. "Get in the car. It's time you were acquainted with The George. The one I knew, anyway."

* * *

The main school building was smaller than George had remembered - less impressive, somehow. It had been different on his first day. And much different on his last. 

Jillian stood next to him the whole tour, but as they made their way around the campus, George was finding it easier to walk on his own - sure, he was gimpy, but at least he was under his own power. When the tour finally broke up, George noticed that they had reached the old second-floor library, which was now a darkened storage room for used and broken equipment. He peered inside. "God, this place. I lived here senior year."

Jillian pressed her body into his back, ostensibly to look over his shoulder. Her shape against his wasn't a feeling he could ignore. "I'll bet there's chairs in there," she said. She slipped away to his side. "You wanna sit for a minute?" she asked. "You're breathing's a bit labored."

George nodded. "Yeah. That last set of stairs was steeper than I remembered," he said, as if that was the reason his respiration had changed.

She smiled gently, checked the door, and found it unlocked. She reached a hand inside and found the lightswitch. "Come on in," she said, holding a hand out to him.

He took a breath, then grasped her palm. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah," she replied, guiding him to a chair. "Why?"

"You're...shaking."

"It's cold in here," she replied.

She wasn't lying. He took a breath of damp, sweet air. "Musty, too. You'd think they'd have figured out how to get rid of the old book smell by now, but I guess that kind of thing lingers for a long time."

Jillian nodded. George noticed a peculiar light behind her eyes. "Something wrong?"

"Nope," she said.

* * *

Dar fit his beaten down Camaro between a brand-new Cadillac and a factory-fresh Mercedes. "King of parking," he said with a smile, cutting the engine, which whined its way to a stop. "That's what they used to call me around here," he added with a wink. 

"Okay, which wrist do you mind using the least?" Izzie asked, popping the seat belt release.

He nodded apologetically. "I'm sorry - you make me forget things."

She looked out the window at the white brick school building. Lights were on in some of the windows. People were moving past them. Outside on the grass, a small group of people she recognized from the night before were being shown a tree by a teenager and they were smiling with recognition. All of this gave her a cold shiver. "Why did you bring me here?" Izzie asked.

Dar tilted his head. "This is where a nerd named George O'Malley was transmogrified into The George. That is the campus he rocked. Lessons were taught, lives were changed. Mine no less than anyone else."

Izzie gave him her best fake smile. "I realize that. But unless there's a boutique inside where I can find an evening gown - "

"We'll get to that, Izzie," Dar said warmly. "But you have to come with me first."

* * *

George's leg was feeling much better now. The pain meds he'd taken had finally taken full effect, and it also helped that he wasn't having to keep up with the organized tour group. Plus Jillian. She was being very patient with him, chatting about her life and asking about his, laughing at all his stories of life at Seattle Grace. She didn't ask about who he was dating or what his plans were after the internship was over. It was the kind of conversation he'd missed having with her. With anyone, really. 

She'd stepped out for a minute to find them some coffee, and true to her timing, sixty seconds later, she was back with two steaming cups. "I'm sorry if I was gone too long," she said. "How's the leg?"

"Better," he said. "Thanks for this."

"The coffee?" she asked. "No problem."

"No. Thanks for being my crutch today. I appreciate it."

"Wherever, whenever, right?"

"Yeah," George said. The words made him think of Izzie. He sipped his coffee, hoping that would push her out of his mind's eye. Then he caught a glint off the diamond mine on Jillian's finger. "So, what does your fiance think about this?" he asked.

"The reunion? He was all in favor of it," she replied. "'Go,' he said. 'Have a good time.'"

George smiled wistfully at her. "He sounds like a great guy."

"He is. He's very nice, in fact." The words sounded a bit off-kilter. Not that she didn't mean them, but like she was repeating a scratchy, faded recording of them. "A very nice man."

"That's good," George replied. "I'm happy for you."

Her tone didn't change. "Me too. Jeffrey's handsome, distinguished, successful. A real go-getter, my grandma would've called him. Maybe the best man I've ever known."

"Great," he said, enthusiasm in his voice. "That's just great. Sounds like you hit the jackpot."

Jillian's shoulders slumped, as if the muscles suddenly collapsed all at once. "I'm lying," she said.

"What?" George asked.

"George O'Malley," she said, falling into the chair next to him. "I swear you're the most oblivious human being alive."

"What?" George repeated.

* * *

The walkway to the building was lined with people in their later twenties, holding chilling coffees and chattering about this and that. Dar led her through them. The "heys" and "howzitgoins" were the toll that was required for passage. Dar, to his credit, didn't stop moving along the path, but also didn't hesitate to point out one factoid or another as the journey passed. For Izzie, it felt like another trip to the mixer. 

"And that's the tree The George planted first day of senior year," Dar was saying. "He had a great speech about responsibility and future classes looking up to our example. That night, he passed out at the kegger."

Izzie nodded. "Hm."

Dar pointed to a square patch of concrete, ringed with picnic tables. "And over there where those benches are, is where we had our big open-air debut concert, first half of junior year. Unplugged, of course. Me and Smitty - you didn't meet him, thank God - on guitar, George on drum kit."

"Drums? He played - "

"Well, he hit them. Playing...even he says it wasn't his thing." Dar smiled. "Nine people showed up."

"Only nine? Not nine thousand?" Izzie asked, her tone unmistakably sarcastic.

"It was cold out. And rainy." Dar looked toward the door. "And right there is where he first glimpsed the once-and-future close, personal friend."

"Jillian?" Izzie asked.

"Sophomore year," he replied. "She was with some of her cheerleader associates. Didn't even know he was alive at the time. But she was about to find out."

* * *

Jillian stood up, coffee in hand, and started to pace a bit. "Jeffrey...he doesn't know," she blurted. 

"About?"

"This trip," she replied. "I told him I had a work thing this weekend. He doesn't call me when I'm at work. That niceness again."

"So you didn't tell him about the reunion? You're not lying," George said. "I didn't tell Izzie...and yeah, she got really mad at me..." He grimaced. "Forget I brought that up, it's a bad example."

"He flew me to Paris, George," she groaned. "Six weeks ago. He flew me to Paris, and got down on one knee, and the ring was just - but I - " She shook her head and sighed with resignation. "Sophomore year. I was failing Trig. And I thought to myself, Who cares? I'll wait to take it next year or the next. But Mrs. Halperin told me that if I didn't get my grades up, I'd be off the squad. So I had to request a tutor. And I thought, I'm gonna be saddled with some math nerd for the rest of the year."

"Then I showed up," he said.

She nodded. "Right out in front of the building."

"You were with - " George's eyes found the ceiling. "Who were those other cheerleaders?"

Jillian seemed to miss his question. "And you were a nerd, and all fumbly and nervous and I was could feel the other girls staring daggers at you and daggers at me, but your eyes were just so...kind." She looked at him again. "You were kind. And sweet. And patient. And...cute."

"Cute?" George coughed. "You thought I was - "

"Yeah. I can't describe why or how, but, yeah." She stepped behind him, and squeezed his shoulder "More than that, you were good to me. You gave up on going out with your friends when I needed your help, and when I wanted to quit or take a short cut, you wouldn't let me. Remember when I got a D-plus on that semester test, and you were actually proud of me for what I got right? You never talked down to me or insulted me about things I didn't understand, you were warm and generous when I succeeded, and you made sure I buckled down when I needed to the most."

George felt his ears reddening. "Thank you," he said. "But don't sell yourself short; you worked hard."

Jillian sat again, closer this time. "I cried when I got a B on the third quarter final, remember?"

"Yeah," he replied. "Again, you earned it."

"And we were in your room? Sitting on your bed? And I started crying really hard?" Her words were more urgent now.

"Yeah," he said.

"You put your arms around me," she said, "and you just...held me."

"I remember."

"You didn't try anything. You didn't make a move."

George smiled gently. "You needed someone to hug. I was there."

Jillian pursed her lips. "When I left your house, all I could think was...I wish he would have kissed me."

Her words hung in the heavy air, and "Pardon?" was all George could think to say.

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._**


	7. Chapter 7

**One Thing Leads To Another**

_**Tom Sez:** Chapter. Seven._

_(Which, as those of you playing along at home will recall from my previous opening ramblin' gambit, was originally a big hunk of the sixth.)_

_Wow. Nothing else I've put on this particular site has made it to that mythological digit - or been this well-received, thanks to all y'all. And here I thought I'd just be posting a larf-and-a-harf that would zip along and I'd be finished with it by now and on to the next thing. Instead, I find myself posting the longest, most backstory-rich chapter to date. Best laid plans, right? Still, I am relishing this ride...and I hope that you, O Kind Reader, are as well. As I wrote a couple chapters ago, the best is yet to be - and that's no empty promise; it's a guarantee..._

_(Rhyming couplets in something resembling meter? I must be in a good mood...)_

_For Those About To Disclaim, We Salute You: I'm running low on half-witty ways to say that I don't have any control over Grey's Anatomy. So I'll just sit here for a while. You go on without me._

* * *

**SEVEN**

George was pinned to his seat, and not just because of the way Jillian was looking at him. His instincts were to run, but with his injury, he was afraid that he'd get halfway to the door before the pain made his leg buckle underneath him, leaving him sprawled on the floor, defenseless to whatever she was hatching. So maybe it had more to do with Jillian's gaze than he dared to admit.

For her part, Jillian wasn't retreating. "From that moment on, no matter what I did, all I could think about was...you and me...me and you. Not just for that day. But for weeks." Her voice was richer now, like her body was growing warmer by the syllable. "I'd see you in the halls at school, hanging out with Dar or somebody, and I'd say hi, and you'd say hi, and ask how I was, and I'd feel all nervous and jittery inside. Not a bad nervous and jittery, though, a good nervous and jittery."

He tried to scroll through the memories of that time, wanting to recall if there were any clues to her attitude back then, but everything was a blur. Then, a cold blast of clarity shot through him. "You had a crush? On me?" George said weakly.

"A really, really bad one." She stood up and walked toward the door, like she wanted to give him time to absorb the news.

The quiet was pressing on his skull. "Two reallys?" he finally squeaked.

"I tried to get over it," she went on. "I dated guy after guy after guy for the next year. And I would tell myself to avoid you. Don't go to the computer lab, George'll be there. Don't go to the library, George'll be there. Don't go to the concert...or the movies...or the mall...but you were everywhere." She came back to the chair and sat again. Rested her hands on his. "So, senior year, I decided I'd be your friend. If I can't beat him, so to speak, I'll hang out with him. And then, it was all fun, all the time." She smiled. "I could tell you anything, and you just listened. I'd do something stupid or I'd have a fight with somebody or I'd get my heart broken, and you were a rock for me. And pretty soon, I was over my crush. It was gone." Her head shook a fraction. "You can't know how liberating it was to not have the constant, overwhelming urge to pin you against a wall and kiss you and kiss you and kiss you and let nature take it from there."

George felt like he'd been kicked in the other shin, but didn't want to let it show. "Yeah, huh?" he felt himself ask as a grimace infected his tone. Good cover, he thought.

* * *

Dar held the heavy creaking fire door open for Izzie and allowed her to pass in front of him. A long, cold hallway lined with lockers was the first sight to cross Izzie's eyeline."This is the front hallway of Woodrow Wilson High School. The old stompin' grounds." Dar paused for a second, his voice echoing, but he also seemed to be noticing something that Izzie couldn't. "Man, it still smells the same," he said. 

Izzie shot a puzzled look at Dar. "I don't know how to respond to that."

"Don't respond. Just pay attention." Dar's face was long as they walked down the hall. "This is where I first saw George. Freshman year. Coming right through these doors, canvas bookbag over his shoulder, short-sleeve shirt, khaki pants. Brown shoes. Nerd. Geek. Dork." He ticked the words off like they were on a list. "I was over there, hanging out by my locker, with these older guys I'd latched on to. We were all Mister I'm-So-Friggin'-Cool, you know, all black clothes and bad attitude. Rebelling against whatever it was that we were supposed to be rebelling against." He snorted at the shadow of his former self.

Izzie sighed. "Let me guess. By the end of the day, you and The George were rocking the hallway."

"I wish," Dar said, folding his arms. "It was the third day of classes. George had missed the first couple days getting over some stomach thing, so naturally, he'd missed freshman orientation and homeroom assignment. He walked in here with no clue where he was going or how he was gonna get there. So here he comes down the hall, which is just teeming with noise and bodies. And Frankie Tomlin - this senior who was sort of the instigator of our little clique - he catches sight of George and he taps me on the shoulder and gives me this little grin - real evil-like - and says, 'Look at that bug.' And everybody else starts laughing, right, 'cause they knew what he was saying. Me, I'm the dumb freshman who is trying to latch on to them, so I laugh, too. And then, Frankie says to nobody in particular, 'Go say hi.'" Dar exhaled like the memory was causing him pain. "Frankie didn't say hi to anybody; he meant go take somebody down a peg or two. Whether they had a peg or two to give, that was none of his concern."

"Why would it be?" Izzie asked.

Dar nodded. "So I go. And I block him. And I say, 'How's it goin'?' George was - George. He asks where the office is, because he needs to blah-blah-blah. And I hear Frankie and a couple of the other guys laughing and saying stuff about the office being closed or that he's at the wrong school or whatever. And George says - with those big, wet, sad eyes of his - 'sorry,' all quiet and stammery, and nearly falls on his face getting past us." Dar's face paled. "We were on his ass from that moment on. Hit all the bullshit high notes that bullies tend to play. Dump his books in the hallway, push him from behind when he was at the water fountain or going through his locker, trip him in the cafeteria, maybe knock his tray over."

"Real creative stuff," Izzie said.

"And we got the reaction that made us all warm inside - big, wet, sad eyes and a stammery 'sorry.'" Dar chuckled sadly. "That lasted all year."

Izzie crossed her arms. "All right, you were an asshole. So how did you and George become friends?"

"I'm getting there," Dar said, and motioned for her to follow him.

* * *

Jillian's hands squeezed his, merging her pulsing energy with his nervousness. The combination did nothing but make George squirm in his chair. Feverishly, his brain tried to plot an escape for at least one of them. "Jill..." he said. "You don't have to..." 

"Yes, George. Yes, I do." She exhaled. "Senior Prom was two weeks away. And...I heard...you were dating Melanie Swift." Jillian spoke the name like it was profane. "And that it was kinda serious."

George's mind flashed back to the blonde, one of Jillian's rivals in the cheerleader clique. A year their junior. Perky, in every sense of the word. Most of the perkiness did not come naturally; he'd discovered her 'perk' - among other things - scattered across a bathroom floor, next to her face-down form. "Me and Melanie?" he asked. "No. She was serious about me, maybe. And that didn't even last through the third date."

Jillian began taking deep breaths, like someone who'd just finished one ride too many on a roller coaster. "Thinking about you with someone else...someone like her...it made me...jealous."

"Jealous?" George's eyes narrowed.

"Really, horribly, sick-to-my-stomach jealous," she admitted. "I had no reason to, I know. But George, you were my dearest friend. And when I thought I was about to lose you, I - I just about - "

"Just about what?"

Jillian looked him square in the eye. "Fell apart." She leaned ever closer to him. He could almost hear her heart beating. "I couldn't eat," she said. "I couldn't sleep. All I could think about was how to get you back. So I..."

A dawning realization spread across George's face. "That's why you..." George's jaw clenched as tried to choke down the lump of cotton that had grown in his throat. "You're screwing with me again, right?" He sounded doubly desperate. "Like this morning, on the bed? It's one big prank on the old high school buddy. Right? _Right?_"

"No, George," she said. "Not at all."

He felt like he'd just been zapped with ten thousands volts, and probably looked it. "You're telling me this now," he sputtered. "Today. Not then. You're telling me now that why you - " He stopped for moment to regain his composure. It didn't work that well. "You said that you just wanted to have fun at your Senior Prom. When you asked me." He started giving the room a serious look, a thought dawning on him. "Here, in this room. You asked me to prom in this room. Remember? Of course you remember. You probably brought me here on purpose."

"No," she protested, then immediately added, "Maybe. Maybe I did. But...George...I..." And then Jillian, words escaping her, lowered her face to his and crushed a kiss onto his lips. It wasn't a peck, either. In George's experience, a tender-yet-passionate kiss from a beautiful woman was not usually an unpleasant thing, but...

When the kiss broke, and her eyes fluttered open, she seemed to be glowing, soft and inviting, and she was all smiles.

George, however...

* * *

Izzie noticed that the hallways were darkening and there were less and less of the classmates around. Dar had moved them deeper into the building, past one classroom or another. "Where are you taking me?" she demanded. 

"Jeez, Izzie, where's your sense of adventure?"

"Somewhere near an exit," she replied.

Dar stopped in his tracks. "You came to me, right? Unhappy with yourself. You wanted to know what to do about George." He tilted his head. "This is how I'm choosing to tell you."

"You couldn't just give me the short version and send me on my way?"

"Believe me, this is the short version." Dar sighed, then started again. "Summer before my sophomore year, I get stuck in remedial classes - like the rest of my 'friends'. Except, of course, none of them have ex-Marines for parents who are driving them to and from school, dressing them down both ways for being a 'disappointment', so they blow school off, and nobody cares. I blew it off once. Starting on day two, I was stuck there, doing all this classwork that, to be honest, I should have been doing - "

"Instead of being Mister I'm-So-Friggin'-Cool?"

He stopped again. "This is why I fantasize about you. Among other intangibles." His eyes swept down her.

Izzie groaned. "I will hit you again, Dar. Consider that an intangible."

"Fair enough," Dar said, walking again. "Anyway, one day during a break between classes, I'm wandering the halls, and I noticed that the light was on in the band room." He pointed to a darkened room just ahead of them. "It was open. I went in. I saw the big, beautiful concert grand piano they had in there. And I just had to play it. So I sat on the stool, and I adjusted the seat, and I put my fingers on those keys." He paused for a moment. "I hadn't played in a couple years, so I was rusty. But the rush - it was so - I hadn't felt that energy, that joy, in so long, I almost didn't notice all my mistakes. And that energy was making me feel so warm and alive and happy, I thought I was gonna burst. And the instant I finish the movement I was playing, I hear - clapping. And I turn to see who it is. Guess who."

The image of George applauding cheered Izzie, and Dar's expression mirrored hers. "And I want to be a good bully...but I can't. He's seen me now for who I am. And he blurts, 'Wow! You're great!' A big smile on his face, for crying out loud. And I wanna jump up and threaten him or hit him or hell, just run from the room - but I don't. I smile." Dar sounded amazed. "_I freakin'_ _smile_! And I say thank you! Then, without a word, he starts putting together a clarinet."

"A clarinet?" she asked.

"Damn right. Any bully worth his salt at least takes a shot at him for that. But I'm feeling so good that - I don't. I ask him how long he's played it. Can you believe that?" His voice strained with incredulity.

"Yeah," Izzie said.

"Well, I can't, and I was there!" Dar said. "He asks me to help him tune up. Then he pulls out sheet music. Asks me to play the accompaniment. And I do." He leaned against the wall. "Not a month before, I'm hurting him in a way that leaves no bruises on the skin, spills not a drop of blood, but spiritually, might as well be a shotgun blast. And then, in an instant, it's almost like nothing ever happened between us." Dar smiled at the unfolding memories that seemed to be playing behind his eyes. "We spent most of that whole summer in one classroom or another, just playing music and talking about - well - "

"Everything." Izzie knew what Dar meant to say.

"Yeah. He helped me with my school work, I helped him learn a bunch of music, plus he wanted to sharpen his sound and expand the number of woodwinds he could play. He needed someone to accompany him, so I went back to the piano. My parents couldn't believe that I was practicing again. By the end of the summer, I was better at it than I'd ever been. And I was happy." His eyes grew misty. "I actually had a friend. Being in a military family, moving all the time, you didn't know anybody long enough to get that far. And now, I had one. A real one." Dar grimaced. "That should have been my hint. Things were too good to last."

* * *

Jillian was studying George's face. He was staring at her, eyes wild, jaw muscles working overtime. "George?" she asked, her voice quiet. 

The question made him explode. "I can't believe this! I can not - " George let out an aggravated shout, then, "I was over it! **I! Was! Over! It!** And now - here - it's back!" His head looked like a balloon that was about to pop as he gasped for air.

"I know. George...I'm sorry...please breathe..." Jillian begged.

"You said, in this very room, 'No pressure. I just wanna have fun. Just hang out with me and laugh and talk and dance.' And we both know how that turned out." His voice was filled with razor blades.

Jillian's eyes drooped. "I know. And I've tried to - "

"Then today, you were all about just helping me get here so I could - so you could - "

"I thought - " Jillian said, haltingly.

"What? What did you think?!"

"I wanted to - to see if - "

He stared into her eyes and finally understood. "That's why you didn't tell your fiance about this whole thing." Then his understanding was muddied again. "Because of...me? _Me?_" George asked with disbelief. "He's a millionaire. He's the best man you've ever known. He's...he's..."

"He's not you," she said, touching his hand again.

"No! No, no, no. No." George found his legs. "_Ow_. I'm leaving."

"I drove you here," Jillian said.

"I'm - ow - painfully aware of that. I'll call a cab. I'll hitchhike. I'll let somebody drag me behind a speeding car. Anything to get me away from here. Away from you." He limped away, a series of pained grunts spiking his mutterings as he walked.

Jillian slumped in her chair. All things considered, this had gone about as well as she could have hoped.

* * *

Dar started leading Izzie back toward the front of the school. He was a little odd, she thought as she watched him stride, but he was certainly not a bad man. In fact, he seemed rather decent. And she wondered a little - more than a little, actually - why she hadn't met him before. At the mixer, he and George, once the night had finally started rolling, were almost conjoined. But she'd never heard George mention his name even once, at least as far as she could remember. She was about to ask him about this when she heard him speak again. "From the very first day of sophomore year," Dar said, "you could see that George was more confident. More outgoing. People - teachers, staff, students - were starting to notice that he wasn't that scared 'bug' anymore." He gritted his teeth. "He and I, we sorta drifted apart. He did his thing, I did mine. For some stupid reason - loyalty or idiocy or whatnot - I went back to hanging out with the guys that I hung with the year before. They tried to push him around, most of the time behind my back. He laughed in their faces. Loud and long." 

"And then they really started to hate him," Izzie said.

"Bingo. Middle of the first semester, I started hearing that a bunch of 'em wanted to 'punish' him. For what, I do not know." Dar's face twisted into disgust. "Keith Lohmann - the new senior instigator - wanted me to do it."

"Why you?"

"He'd heard that we'd made nice over the summer. Now I had to 'prove myself' to them." His voice dropped to a halting guttural tone. "It made me sick. I wanted to tell 'em all off, but I didn't want to take a beating. So I said I would, but only if George started it."

Izzie's frown was pronounced. "That was mighty generous of you."

Dar shook his head, but not at Izzie. "I ignored his 'hellos' in the hall. Laughed at him when somebody else would try to embarrass him. Mind you, I'm dying about it inside. But I keep telling myself, it's the only way to keep him from getting killed." He chewed on this for a moment, then said, "Finally, he cracks. I was walking to one of my classes with this other guy from my group, and we pass George, and the guy I'm with dumps his books. George comes after me. Pushes me. I start thinking, 'Okay, this is it.'" He stopped where he was, and pointed at the empty space around them. "A crowd gathers. All the guys I'd been running with, the football team, a bunch of nerds and geeks - I mean, that hallway was packed with the cross-section of our entire school. And I think, 'I'll just throw a couple of punches and George'll go down and that'll be it.'" Dar chuckled. "It didn't go like that, ultimately."

"How did it go then?"

Dar fixed his eyes on hers. "He beat the living crap out of me."

Izzie felt herself laugh. "He what?"

Dar laughed too. "Another surprise from our boy. I got off one lousy punch, which he ducked, and then - pow! Didn't know he had it in him - hell, never even suspected he had it in him - but I've never been hit that hard in my entire life. And my folks weren't shy about discipline. All I remember is feeling a sharp pain in my jaw, and then I was eating cement."

"And that was it?"

"Yeah," Dar said, continuing down the hallway again. "Every guy who wanted a piece of George exactly sixty seconds before - not a short list, either - was now running for the hills. And there was cheering. And applause. And his name echoing through the halls. The principal showed up with a couple of teachers to break everything up, and - I still can't believe this - George helped me back to my feet. Told the adults that I had tripped. Then he was gone. And I mean _gone_. For like, two weeks, he wouldn't talk to me when he saw me - hell, he didn't see me when he saw me. And I had earned it. But I wasn't just going to accept it, either."

Izzie could tell by Dar's expression that he was reliving a favorite day. "I'm in the line at the cafeteria. And the dining hall is packed. Every table is full. And there's so much noise and activity, it's hard to hear yourself think. I realize that George is maybe fifteen feet ahead of me. He's about to walk in to the room, juggling a tray and I can see that he's trying to find a spot. But there's no spot to find. And suddenly, something comes over me - this urge - and I get out of line and stride right into the room, and - I climb up on a table and shout: '**LADIES** **AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE MAKE WAY FOR THE MAN, THE MYTH AND THE LEGEND - THE GEORGE!**'" His call bounced off the walls and the echo seemed magnified by the memory of the bricks. "And the room goes just dead quiet for an instant, and then - whoosh! He comes into that room riding a tidal wave of appreciation. And he's blushing and shambling and smiling. I hadn't seen him that happy in a long time. All these people are pressing together and waving at him to sit with them. And all I can think is, at least I got one more smile out of him. So I'm walking out, and he steps in front of me. And he looks at me and he says, 'Clarinet practice at four.' That was that." Dar grinned. His whole being seemed to beam in concert. "We were joined at the hip for the next two years."

"Wow," Izzie said, genuinely impressed. "That - that actually is cool."

"Isn't it?" Dar asked, turning the corner into the main hall. "I still get chills," he said. The walls had brightened considerably, and so had his mood..

"But, Dar," she added, "I - and don't take this the wrong way - I don't see how that helps me pick a gown."

"Izzie, The George is not complicated," Dar said, a charitable smile on his face. "He didn't need me to jump on a table and announce him. Somebody would have seen him, let him sit at their table. Maybe even all that accompanying adulation would have happened without me. But I needed to let him know that I was sorry for all the shit I'd pulled. And I was ready, willing, and able to make a complete ass of myself then, as I would now and any day in the future, just to let him know that his friendship really and truly matters to me." He shook his head. "He won't care what you wear, Izzie - as long as you show up." He pushed open the front door, and sunlight poured over them both.

* * *

Eddie Jiang was genuinely thrilled beyond his seventeen years. Here he was, the last guy out of the school after the tour was over, planning on another night of World of Warcraft, and instead, he found himself driving the legendary George O'Malley back to his hotel. It was almost more than the current captain of the Wilson High Mathletes could stand. He looked over at the figure he'd seen in so many school hallway photo collages, holding up trophies and plaques that were inscribed with his name. Or on stage with his bandmates earning the praise of the masses. Or even on the arms of pantingly hot girls. He didn't want to overstep, but he also knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. "Is it Mister O'Malley?" he asked. "Or Doctor? I mean, whatever you want me to call you - I'm sorry. I'm talking too much." 

"Doctor," George muttered. "Or Mister. I - I really don't care right now."

Eddie took a chance. "Can I - call you The George?"

"No," George snapped. "No one can. You know why? 'Cause that was high school. I'm not in high school anymore. I'm an adult. A grown-up. The George was a kid. I'm not a kid."

"Okay," Eddie replied.

The car filled with silence for blocks. Then, out of the blue, Eddie's passenger blurted to no one in particular, "What the hell was I thinking coming here? Coming here with Jillian. That was just - just - " He unleashed his eyes on Eddie. "How can a girl not know?"

The teenage driver froze. "Know?"

George's voice was weighted with desperation. "She tells me all this stuff. All this stuff about our past. She just dumps it on to my lap. How she was sick about me. And how she wanted me to kiss her. And-and-and."

"Who?" It was a genuine inquiry. Perhaps he'd met his 'her' today, during the tour.

George knotted his fingers. "How could she not know that I had feelings for her? How? How? I mean, I'd fallen for her at first sight. How could I not - she was beautiful! For months, I was thinking about her in all sorts of ways that fifteen year old boys think about fifteen year old girls." His cupped hands met his forehead, and he seemed to stir his thoughts with them. "She was on my bed, for crying out loud! And I was holding her in my arms! She wished that I had kissed her? **_I_** wish that I had kissed her! But I didn't! I was her tutor, I was the good guy! She didn't sleep? _**I didn't sleep!**_"

Eddie started to worry about his passenger. "Sir - uh - "

George wasn't listening - he was on a roll. "But I got past my feelings. I did! I worked on 'em, and tamped 'em down, and pushed them out of my brain, because she was - and is - so far out of my league that a sports metaphor isn't even appropriate. I ignored my hormones. We were friends. That was it. And it was great. She confided in me as a friend. She gave me advice as a friend. She asked me to prom as a friend. And what happened that night...it happened...but I was able to get past it."

Eddie nodded, trying to be polite. "I - "

His passenger was still rolling. "**_I got past it!_** And now she comes back and she's engaged to a millionaire who sounds like, I dunno, the perfect male of the species. And I'm thinking, hey, we could be friends again. But that's not gonna happen, because she has to kiss me and spill all these emotions out and bring all that old shit back up."

Then George was quiet again, staring out the window, which didn't ease Eddie's mind. "She kissed you?" he asked meekly.

"Yeah. It was - it was a real - " George chuckled sadly. "It wasn't a joke being played on an old friend. She kissed me, and she meant it."

Eddie stopped the car at a red light. "What does it mean?"

"Nothing," George said. "It's probably all in my head." He took a breath, the light turned green, and Eddie accelerated through the intersection.

"Unless of course, it isn't," George continued, unprompted. "Which means that she's carrying a torch for me. Me. Doctor George 'Fumbly-Ultranerd-In-Debt-Up-To-His-Eyeballs' O'Malley." He sounded sadder than before. "And the real hell of it...is that I can't help feeling the tiniest bit happy about it." He leaned his forehead against the window again.

Eddie nodded. He didn't understand the problem in the slightest, but acknowledging it was the least he could do for a fellow Mathlete.

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._**


	8. Chapter 8

**One Thing Leads To Another**

_**Tom Sez:** Holy cats, this chapter was a hard nut to crack. **Write. Revise. Rewrite. Revise. Cry. Drink. Cry. Revise. Cry. Etcetera...**_

_But I got it. Plus something else -_ _wait, can't tell you about _**that**_ just yet. But very soon, I promise... _

_Instead, a teasing haiku..._

Next to last chapter  
Formal on the horizon  
Seeds will bloom - trust me...

_Okay. So I suck at haiku. But you'll forgive me, won't you, O Kind Reader? Pretty please, with hot fudge and a cherry on top? What if I threw in your choice of sprinkles? Gummi Bears? Chopped nuts? Hurry up and pick; the ice cream's melting..._

**_O Say can you disclaim:_** Grey's Anatomy. _I own the DVDs, and that's it._

**

* * *

EIGHT **

George's leg started throbbing again as he rode the elevator to his room. He'd put too much strain on it. He could have just stayed in the room, like his dad had suggested. He could have laid on that plush mattress and found a movie on TV and raided the honor bar - he had earned a seven-dollar chocolate chip cookie, dammit, and he could have had one. Hell, he could've had two. All he had to do was not go to the high school. Definitely could have skipped that trip.

_Should _have, he corrected. _Should_ have skipped.

He tapped his head repeatedly against the rich oak-paneled wall. **Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.**

Jillian kissed him. He could still feel the tender force of it on his lips.

She kissed him and she meant it. Like she did on prom night.

Before she slipped a motel room key into his pocket.

Before they bared more than their souls to each other.

Before he woke up and found her - well, he didn't find her, actually.

George's leg throbbed. So did his head.

The elevator doors opened, and he began to limp toward his room. With every step, his stomach knotted tighter and tighter. He couldn't face Jillian again; Dar was being quintessentially Dar-ish; not to mention that now that the crowd had partied with The George, they would be expecting him to show up bigger and badder - which, he feared, was something that he'd promised them the instant before he lost all conscious control at the mixer.

Plus Izzie. The person he'd dreaded being with the most this weekend was now the only one he truly wanted to see, and she wouldn't be behind the door. Why? Because she was a grownup. He'd forgotten what she knew: the real world had caught up to him. This reunion, every blessed second of it, was conspiring to intoxicate him with the fragrant memory of his adolescence, to keep him from acknowledging that he was finally past all that. He'd grown up. He was a man.

And he was. Most definitely.

He found his rented tuxedo - classic black and white - in the closet. George set his jaw and started to undress. He'd show them. He'd show them all. George O'Malley was a man now. They'd see.

* * *

Dar sat on the big couch in Izzie's living room. He'd promised to wait for her. And of course, he would. Chivalry was not dead in the eyes of Dar Torvald. Besides, it was the first time in years he'd actually been inside a house where George lived. 

He noticed a batch of picture frames lining the ledge over the wide brick fireplace, and curiosity lifted him to them. Some were antiquities - a tin-type wedding photo from before the invention of the smile, a couple of yellowing color images of a lonely-looking girl in a windswept red dress, knobby-kneed and all - but mostly new pictures. A party snap of a drunken George being hugged from behind by Izzie. A sharp-cheekboned strawberry blonde in hospital scrubs leaning against an identically dressed ebony-locked Asian woman who seemed to be leaning back. Another one of George, in his Sunday best, grinning wildly, and standing shoulder-to-shoulder (well, kinda), with a sharply-dressed and square-jawed African-American man who appeared to be a millisecond from laughing out loud. Another one of the strawberry blonde, this time at a table with Izzie, their noses pressed into books. There were more, too - but Dar's vision was blurring as he found himself staring at one of George sleeping soundly, his head in Izzie's lap.

"You like that one?" he heard Izzie ask.

"Yeah," Dar said, his voice rough. "Actually, they're all - they're all pretty good."

"I took some of 'em, Cristina did a couple. Meredith took most." She stepped next to him and pointed to one that was hiding in the back. "That's George's contribution."

Dar took a look. It was Izzie, her blonde hair a ratty mess, flour and chocolate streaking her face, arms, and the apron she was wearing. And laughing like she thought she would never do it again. It was the closest thing he could imagine to how George's eyes saw her. That made him smile. "What was this?" he asked.

"The Great Fudge Brownie Disaster of 2005," she said with no little affection. "Started as a bake-off, ended as a war. There were no survivors."

He let out a breathy chuckle. "Sounds like you and George have a really great group of friends."

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, we do."

Dar looked her squarely in the eyes. "Six years," he said.

"What?" she asked.

His gaze was soft. "Since I saw him last. Six and a half, even."

"I wondered about that," she replied. "Why he never brought you up or had you over before."

"We kinda lost track of each other after college," Dar said softly. "He was around the first few years, we hung out a lot. But when he got serious about his education - and I am extremely proud of him for that - he drifted off the radar. But I get it. Medical school's not easy, and now the internship and everything, and I know that he needs to concentrate and focus on the task at hand." He smiled, like the sadness didn't show. "It's just that I wouldn't have minded hearing from him once and a while." He shook it off, noticing the opaque garment bag draped over her shoulder. "Well, enough dredging my pitched spirit for painful memories. You found something?"

A cheesy grin spilled across her face. She looked genuinely tickled.

"You did," he said, a conspiratorial smirk warming his expression. "Can I see?"

"Nope," Izzie laughed. "It's a surprise. Just get me back to the hotel so I can change."

"Oooh, intrigue," Dar said. "Is it flashy or saucy or even - dare I hope - a little naughty?"

Izzie held her grin as he opened the door to let her pass. Dar felt like a four year-old on Christmas morning.

* * *

George had been out of the shower for about two seconds when he heard the knock. He tied the sash on his bathrobe and walked to the door. Once he opened it to the length of the chain, he instantly regretted it. 

"George - " Jillian managed to choke.

He shut the door. Slammed it, really. "Jillie, go away. Go back to your perfect life and leave me alone."

"But I - "

"Go. Away."

"I was wrong," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted. Leave me alone."

"No," she declared. "Not until you talk to me."

To the length of the chain again. His eyes were ablaze. "Jillian, you kissed me," he said. "And you meant it."

"Yeah," she stammered. "I couldn't think of anything else to say, and you were there, and I just sort of - panicked."

"Panic?" George asked. "That's your excuse?"

"It's the truth," she shrugged.

"Oh. I see." He went for the kill. "So I guess you panicked on prom night, too?"

"Kinda," she admitted with a wince.

"Kinda? Kinda?!" George slammed the door. "Why do I leave the house? Why?"

"I know you're angry," she said, putting herself close to the frame. "And hurt. And - if you're like me - a little confused."

"A little? Yeah. You could say that I'm a little confused." George voice was making the door vibrate a bit. "Like the Pacific Ocean has a little water in it."

"George," she pleaded. "You have to talk to me."

The door opened to the length of the chain again. "No," he said, exasperated. "No, I don't. In fact, I shouldn't. We have a history - and a present, let's be honest - that sort of...precludes...us talking to each other. It leads to all sorts of things. Like you kissing me. Or you liking me like that or me liking that you kissed me. We can't do that. I can't do that." He started to shut the door.

Jillian's head darted up. "You liked it," she said.

The door stopped. "I didn't say that."

"Yes," she protested. "Yes, you did."

"When?" he argued.

"Just now," she replied, a bit triumphal. "Just now you said something about 'you liking me like that or me liking that you kissed me,' using 'me' in reference to you."

The door opened again. "Fine," he conceded. "I have a tiny spark of 'hooray, she kissed me again' in my gut. That, however, is dwarfed by the inferno of 'Dear God, why did she do that'."

Jillian's eyes met his. "Is that inferno because of your feelings for Izzie?"

"What?" He looked at her through the side of his eyes. "No. Absolutely not."

"George, she is your - "

"Close, personal friend, yes." He was getting thoroughly sick of the phrase.

"Just like I was."

George felt something catch in his throat. He couldn't let her have the point. "You're changing the subject," he said. "You're distracting me and you're changing the subject. And that is simply not fair."

"Fair? I'm getting married, George."

"Yeah," he said. "To 'the best man you've ever known.'"

She squinted at him. "**_You're_** the best man I've ever known, you giant doofus."

He blinked. "What?"

"Aw, George," she said, a sweet sadness in her tone. "I didn't intend to feel what I started to feel again. When I decided I was going to come to this, all I had was the hope that I'd simply be able to face you, and that you wouldn't run for the hills. Or worse. But then, Friday night, I was near you again. And you were still that lovely human being that I remembered. And that was more than I could have hoped for."

George studied her for a moment. Then he closed the door.

Jillian's heart sank, until she heard the scratch of metal on metal.

* * *

Dar escorted Izzie to his room. He drew his keycard with a flourish, then held the door open for her to enter. 

The place was a disaster - empty booze bottles littered the floor, spilled plates of food and half-eaten sandwiches made the chairs unfit for sitting, and the bed...she didn't want to think about what was going on there...

"Do you live like this?" Izzie asked, keeping her bag from brushing against the floor, which she thought she saw ripple at least twice. "I mean, normally?"

Dar smiled. "Rock star lifestyle, sweetheart. Trashed hotel rooms come with the territory." He opened the closet door and found the transparent garment bag containing his single-button tuxedo.

She noticed it. Recognized the lines. It was something more cosmopolitan than she would have expected from what she knew of Dar's tastes. "Nice," she marvelled. "Very nice, actually."

He shrugged. "Should be for seventeen hundred bucks."

Izzie choked on the number. "Seventeen _**hundred?**_"

"It's outrageous, isn't it?"

"What's the gag?" she asked.

"No gag," Dar replied. "Just a common, everyday, hand-tailored seventeen-hundred dollar penguin get-up."

"You?" She was still in shock. "You drive a beat-up Camaro with a broken tape deck, you live in squalor...how can you afford - "

"Same way I can afford to be the lead singer of the Pacific Northwest's number one Foreigner tribute band - " he said, throwing his victorious fist pump, " - three years running." He headed for the door, bag over his shoulder. "See you at the formal."

"Wait, where - " Izzie sputtered.

"What, you wanna change in front of me?" he asked, a bemused expression on his face. "Not that I'd mind or anything, but you might."

"No." Wait, Izzie thought. That's not what she meant. "Well...no to the first thing. Yes to the 'I would mind' part."

"You're a ball of confusion right now, and I can't deal with that kind of static," Dar said, shaking his head in mock-sadness. "I'm gonna go find The George, rattle his cage a little. Cinderella has to get to the ball on time, you know. Besides, you need your privacy. You've got a surprise to spring." He shot her a wink and disappeared.

Izzie looked at the closed bathroom door, which was behind a tipped pile of beer cans. Please God, she thought, if it's not clean, the very least You could do is kill me quick.

* * *

Jillian had plopped down on the bed. George was still in his robe, so he avoided sitting next to her, instead finding a chair and putting it at arm's length. To test the distance, he held out half of his third seven-dollar chocolate chip cookie. She took it, but not before silently indicating to him about the empty space next to her on the mattress. "I promise I won't kiss you again," she said. 

George frowned his awareness. "Forgive me for not trusting you." He rubbed his temples. "We were finally talking again. I was comfortable with you."

"I know." She leaned forward and took his hand. "You and I were back in our rhythm. And I had missed that. Maybe that's why I kissed you."

He wanted to pull away, but his limb betrayed him. They sat in silence for a moment, then he felt himself asking, "Did I do something wrong? On prom night? Is that - is that why you left?"

"No," she said, almost as if the question surprised her. "God, no. You were good. Very good, in fact."

"Please don't humor me," he said.

She smiled. "Not humoring you, George. Most definitely not."

"So you vanishing into thin air was your way of - what?"

Jillian's smile fractured at the edges. "I didn't want to lose you," she said. "So I tricked you. I tricked you into taking me to the prom, and then a motel, and then a bed. And I knew the second it was over that you were gonna find out what I did and why I did it." Her smile was painfully false now. "And I didn't want to lose you. The definition of the vicious circle."

"Makes sense," George said, with mock understanding. "To avoid losing me, lose me."

"I was a child," she said. "You don't know how much that hurt me."

"You're damn right I don't," he grumbled. Then he sighed away that negativity, and said softly, "Jillie, you didn't trick me into anything. I wanted to be with you. And then you were gone." He grimaced. "I just wish you would have talked to me. Maybe then we wouldn't have wasted ten years thinking whatever we were thinking."

The sound died in the room. They listened to the air conditioner hum for a few minutes, then Jillian asked, "What now?"

"Now?" George shook his head. "I don't know."

More shared consideration in the silence was shattered by a pounding on the door. "Up and at 'em, sunshine! The formal can't start without you!"

"Dar..." George groaned.

"Open up, man. Otherwise I'll have to change in the hallway, and these security cameras never seem to flatter my problem areas."

"Your whole body is a problem area," Jillian said, loud enough to be heard through the door.

"Jillie?" Dar sounded far too happy about this development. "George, you magnificent bastard!"

Jillian stood up and walked to the door. She opened it to greet Dar, who was leaning against the frame. "Dear God, woman, The George is not a machine!" he cried.

"No, he certainly isn't," she said softly, looking back over her shoulder at his wistful expression. "See you later?" she asked.

George nodded at her. Then she turned her attention to Dar. "You, too," she said sweetly, just as she treated Dar's battered arm to another punch. Her knuckles landed with a firecracker-like **_pop_**.

Dar gripped his tender bicep, eyes wide, and gasping for breath. "What?**_ What?!_**" he whimpered to everyone and no one.

This time, it was George's turn to attempt stifling a belly laugh.

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._**


	9. Chapter 9

**One Thing Leads To Another**

**_Tom Sez:_** This was _**supposed**_ to be the final chapter, O Kind Reader. Really. Truly. (Why else would I have dropped my mad haiku skillz on y'all?) I had it all plotted and figured out. And it was going to be over, and I was going to be done, and ready to move on to the next thing - or things, actually - which I've already started to work on, and you'll see soon enough.

This isn't to say that I don't love writing this for you, and reading your enthusiastic reactions...well...I **heart** it, I **lurve** it, I want some more of it. (Three mixed media references in a row seems easy, but in one sentence? Yahtzee!) However, a weekend high school reunion is not conducive to a super-sized story, and I don't think you'd want the endgame to be much further away, anyhow. Y'all actually have _**lives**_ to get to, and I need to give you fantastic folks the big, satisfying finish that you are waiting to see.

Heck, the _**last**_ chapter was supposed to be the final chapter. It was practically done when I hit a minefield - which I talk about in something that I think is very cool: a Bonus Feature, akin to a DVD Extra, that contains two completed scenes that were going to be part of Chapter Eight, and which I'll be posting around the time of the final chapter. (_Which could be never - but God in Heaven, I hope not - **TB**_)

Anyway, as I was saying, this chapter was supposed to be the end, all wrapped up, neat and tidy. And then...well, you have to read it. Which is kinda why you came here. So I'll hush up and get outta the way. Until next time, enjoy...

_**Disclaim, Disclaim against the dying of the light:**_ Grey's Anatomy. _Not mine. Also not mine: _The Socket Wrench. Toaster Streudel. The Oedipal Complex. The Be-Dazzler. Nylon. The Dick Butkus Newspaper Grill. _And so on..._

* * *

**NINE**

Dar was sucking air through his teeth as he was changing, and constantly rotating his shoulder in its socket, which piqued George's doctorly curiosity. "Get over here," he said, and beckoned Dar to a chair. He then knelt next to him and rolled up the other man's t-shirt sleeve.

"Give it to me straight, Doc," Dar said, feigning distress. "Will I ever be able to club baby seals again?" He threw in a quivery lip for effect.

George stopped his cursory examination of Dar's arm to study the other man's eyes for a moment, then shook his head in mock-sadness. "But look on the bright side. The seventeen hundred dollars you were going to spend on that Arctic expedition went into a tuxedo you'll never wear again," he said.

"Oh, I wouldn't say never." Half a beat. "Okay, maybe I would."

"I still can't get over that. Seventeen _**hundred**_?"

"Yeah," Dar said. He sounded bored by the question.

"Why?" George asked.

Dar's lip curled into a sneer. "Look at the craftsmanship," he replied. "The clean, sleek lines. You can't get this off the rack."

George snorted. "Do you know what any of that means?"

The sneer vanished like a snowflake on a fire. "Not a word." He smacked his lips. "But I do know that the girl who sold it to me snores."

George laughed at that. "So you dropped nearly two grand to pick up a shopgirl?"

Dar's brow crinkled. "Saying like that makes it sound so - _**unsavory**_." He tilted his head. "It's _**true**_, but still..." He winced as George rolled his sleeve down again.

George noticed that. "You'll live, by the way," he said. "The bruise is pretty deep, though. Looks like you were hit more than once."

"Didn't realize Jillian had such a good jab," Dar said, a bit surprised by George's observational skills. "How's yours?" he asked, trying to deflect his attention.

It seemed to succeed. "Throbbing less, but still throbbing," George replied. "Wandering around the school didn't help it much."

That revelation rang in Dar's ears. "You were haunting the halls again, huh?" He was up on his feet, finding his dress shirt. "You didn't happen to see - "

"What?" George asked.

Dar caught his reaction in his throat and spun it around. "The new science lab. It was locked. I heard."

"No. I spent most of my time in the old library. With you-know-who."

"I shoulda known," Dar said, fluttering his eyelashes. "George and Jill-i-an, sittin' in a tree - "

"Oh, knock it off," George grimaced.

"Once-and-future, Georgie-boy. She's your once-and-future."

"No, she's just my 'once'. Certainly not my 'future'."

Dar felt a smile cross his lips, and he tried to suppress it.

Too late. "What?" George demanded. "What?"

"Tonight, George. Your future begins tonight." He giggled. "It's gonna be great. Trust me. I know things."

"What things?"

"Things. Just things. And I know them." He raised his eyebrows_ **a la**_ Groucho Marx.

George snorted and furrowed his brow at the nearly bursting apart Dar, then caught sight of his unadorned shirt cuffs. "Aw, cripes, where are my cufflinks?" he wondered aloud.

"Cripes?"

"Don't pick at my word choice, Dar," George said, checking his jacket pockets.

"No, George. Just finding it refreshing that you feel like you need to censor your blasphemous language around me."

"Wiseass. Help me find my cufflinks. It's ten bucks if I lose 'em."

"Sure thing," Dar said, standing up and scanning the room. He caught sight of the opened cabinet in the corner of the room. "Holy crap, you broke the seal on the honor bar?" he cried. "Do you know what you've done, man? Pandora's Box has been opened and once you've done that - hey, blueberry mini-muffins! And blueberry schnapps! At only fourteen bucks for the combo?!"

George blinked. "Dar. Pill."

"Sorry, I lost my pills in a tragic pill-losing accident." He glanced into the cabinet again. "No chocolate chip cookies?"

"Jillian and I split one. And I downed two more solo."

"So that explains the crumbs and the plastic wrap. Were they worth your first-born son?"

George thought for a moment, then said, "Actually, yeah."

"They usually are," Dar replied. "I also notice you didn't touch the booze."

"No."

"Willpower. Always said you had too much." He grabbed two bottles of Jim Beam, and tossed one at George, which hit him in the chest and dropped to the floor. "Good hands," Dar said, unscrewing the cap on his.

"I don't want a drink."

"Then leave it for me. Cheers." Dar took a deep swig. "Ahhh!" he breathed.

George sat on his bed again. "Tonight's gonna suck," he pronounced.

"Why?"

"Jillian. Bruised shin. You. It's a perfect storm."

Dar sighed. "Okay, first - Jillie is who she is, you have that past with her, it's messy and unpleasant, I know, but it happened. Second, if you're going to just flail a leg in my direction, it's my duty - perhaps even my responsibilty - to move a few inches so you learn not to do that." He took a beat. "And third, what do you mean by 'you'?"

"I mean, _**Darrin **_- "

Dar shuddered. "Dammit, George, not this weekend..."

"That's your name, right? Your grown-up, adult, proper, real name. Dar was a boy."

"A kick-ass boy - " Dar protested.

"But a boy nonetheless." George sighed with his entire being. "I'm sick of being a boy."

Dar laughed. "So you wanna be a chick?"

"What? No! Jesus, Dar! I'm in no mood for..."

"You wanna be a man," he said, nodding. "A fully grown, mature, responsible adult."

"Yes. I went to med school, I'm an intern - "

"Aware of your backstory."

" - I'm not a child," George finished. "And this whole weekend seems to be nothing but pretending that we're still teenage kids who can play rock star all night long, and not have to worry about anyone or anything." He caught Dar's eyes. "We have responsibilties now that we didn't have before. New lives, new friends, new things to see and do, new problems and new solutions. History is history. The future - it's right there. But to get to it, I need to be a grownup now. Not whenever I feel like getting to it. I have to do it right now if I want any chance at being a better man in the future."

"Okay." Dar seemed to age twenty years. "Okay. You wanna be a man. All mature. Fine."

George wanted to backpedal. "I didn't - I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings - "

"No. No." Dar stirred his eyebrows with his fingertips. "I get it." He cleared his throat. "New lives, new friends. Makes sense."

"Dar..."

"**_Darrin_**, George," he spat. "Just stick with Darrin, since we're being fully grown, mature men here."

"I - "

"You know what I do every day, right? You did get that message?"

"Yeah," George mumbled.

"Yeah." Dar said. "I get up and I go to work. And it's work. Sixteen, eighteen hours a day. People to meet, places to go. I eat lots of bad food, and sleep in lots of hotel rooms and sit in lots of board rooms. Lots and lots." He looked at a spot on the wall. "I've been to most of Europe, most of the Pacific Rim, South America, Africa, even. But I can't tell you how it feels to stand under the Eiffel Tower, or how the sand sinks under your feet on a beach in Rio de Janeiro, or what a sunset looks like over the Indian Ocean. I don't have time. I'm on a plane to Sydney on Monday, for a three-hour meeting with investors that could have been done over the phone in twenty minutes. Three hours, plus the roundtrip flight, George. The Sydney Opera House is beautiful from the air, by the way. Don't know what it looks like up close, but, hey, who cares about that, right?" He shook his head. "Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of my life now is being a grownup. So excuse me, Doctor O'Malley, if I wanna take that one-tenth of a percent of my time and 'play rock star'. Because I honestly thought that you might want to do that too." Dar shook his head as he walked to the door. "I wondered why, you know. Why my best friend went away and stayed away for six-plus _**years**_. I thought he came back last night." His lips twisted a bit. "I guess I must be jet-lagged or something."

George wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't come out.

Dar turned, reached into his pocket and withdrew a plastic bag. "You shouldn't just leave these laying around. Ten bucks is ten bucks." He tossed the bag to George, who fumbled it to the floor, next to the bottle from the mini-bar. "Good hands," Dar snorted sadly, then vanished.

George bent over to pick the cufflink bag up from the floor, and as he did, he realized that he'd been wrong about tonight. It wasn't gonna suck - it was really, _**really**_ gonna suck. Suddenly, a drink didn't seem like such a bad idea.

* * *

The ballroom was very different this night. The frivolous balloons and streamers had been stripped away, the photo collages had vanished. No twinkling lights, no glitter. The festivity had been muted. It was a transition - childhood giving way to adulthood. And indeed, the revelers had cut back on the revelry. Sure, there was still an open bar - but that couldn't disguise the sobriety. 

George wandered in, past Wendy Poore again, who seemed to be revving a little hotter tonight, like she'd decided that tonight was going to be _**his**_ lucky night. "Georgie," she had purred, as she leaned forward to give him a better view of her cleavage. "You look scrumptious," she added, her eyes ablaze.

"Uh-huh," he'd replied, distracted by the sound of the band starting something that vaguely resembled 'Champagne Supernova'. They were apparently achieving this by strangling assorted barnyard animals. Badly tuned barnyard animals. "Ah, CoverBoyz," George said. "It's comforting to know that some things never change."

"Ooh, I love this song," Wendy said, pressing into his side.

"Yeah," George said with a frown. "Too bad they don't."

She leaned into his ear. "No blonde former model-slash-doctor on your arm tonight, I see."

"No," he replied, cringing a bit from the assault of sound coming from the bandstand flowing into one ear and the steamy breath of a woman he barely knew during high school in the other. He turned his head for relief. "Izzie's gone."

"Poor baby," Wendy said. "Poor sweet Georgie." She ran her fingertips over his lapels. "Maybe you'll have time for someone else tonight."

He blinked at her. "Maybe," he said blankly.

Then George felt the lightest tap on his opposite shoulder, and noticed Wendy's face falling for the second night in a row. A sweet, subtle perfume teased his nostrils - he knew that scent. He liked that scent. So he turned his head and looked.

George's vision found:

_Dark, almond-shaped eyes. Full, luxurious lips. Glowing skin. And a smile that could light up the entire Pacific Northwest._

"Callie?" he choked, feeling the wind go out of his lungs.

She held out her hand in a sort of mock-dainty formality, and he grasped it tenderly. "Doctor O'Malley, at your leisure," she said, keeping that sweet, sexy expression on her lips for a long time - or at least long enough for Wendy Poore to slink away, muttering some truly nasty words about one person or another.

* * *

Izzie studied herself in the mirror, doing a few minor touch-ups. She was pleasantly surprised that she looked as good as she did, and that it had come so easily. A little of this, a little of that, and **_voila!_** George's mind was about to be blown sky high, she thought with a giggle. So long as Dar hadn't spilled the beans to him. 

Speaking of surprises, she had been surprised by Dar's bathroom. The toilet seat was still 'Sanitized for Your Protection', the plastic cups had remained shrink-wrapped, and the little soaps and shampoos were untouched. No boozy stench, no body odors, no various disgusting residues.

She was about to consider the possibility that the reason the bathroom was so clean was because he was truly living the debauched rock-star lifestyle - in all manners - but decided against it. Partially because he'd been rather kind to her, but mostly because she didn't want to deal with the nausea that train of thought tended to induce. A green-cheeked face didn't go with her outfit.

Izzie checked her eyes again, and thought about George. Time to make his jaw drop, she thought, the corners of her mouth involuntarily tugging upward as she grabbed her clutch purse and headed for the door.

* * *

_**To Be Continued...**_


	10. Chapter 10

**One Thing Leads To Another**

**_Tom Sez:_** _This is it, folks. The big finish. End of the line. Last roundup. Curtains. Show's over; nothing more to see. Don't forget to take all belongings with you. Please pass your trash to the attendant. Down the aisle and left for the exit, right for the restrooms; concession stands are closed, sorry for the inconvenience. Hope you enjoyed your stay - come back and see us real soon. Blue skies, green lights. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. We know you have a choice when you travel - thanks for flying with us today. And remember, wherever you go, there you are._

_**Tom Also Sez:**_ _All y'all - yeah, alls y'alls - are cordially invited to get yer freak on in the VIP lounge/post-script. That's right - an after-party where the guest list includes you, O Kind Reader! Announcements in there, plus a live DJ to assist you in shaking your various groove thangs (subject to availability; management not responsible for accidents or injuries; no refunds or exchanges), and a no-cover cash bar (prohibited in all Earth-bound areas due to multiple zoning regulations)! _

_Now let's get rockin'..._

**_Claimer-dis-ay: _**GA. Not mine. Never will be.

* * *

**TEN**

George cringed a little as he crossed the threshold into the ballroom, Callie on his arm, and not just because of the awkward drum cadence in the CoverBoyz mangling of 'Freeze Frame'. He'd put his foot down just right - or maybe that was just wrong - and his shin reacted by reminding him once more that he really shouldn't have done it like that. He tried to cover his pain, but his voice was nothing but a squeak as he asked, "So how did you find me?"

Callie noticed the tone, and the hitch in George's giddy-up, and his tightened jaw. "Burke," she replied, then said, "Something's wrong," her eyes searching his.

"No," he literally lied through his teeth.

Her eyelids turned to slits. "Sit," she commanded, pointing to one of the cushy folding chairs that seemed so conveniently placed.

"You look amazing," he said as he lowered himself into the chair, and finally had a chance to take in her dress - crushed black velvet, off the shoulder with a satin silver trim across the top of her bustline, likely designed to highlight her voluptuousness. And it was working on George O'Malley. Boy, was it ever. I mean, _mission freakin' accomplished._

"Roll up your pant leg," she said. He followed orders. She rolled her hips a bit as she adjusted her dress to take a knee without scuffing the skirt, and studied his purpled shin. That bit of action made his pulse jump a couple beats. "Holy cats, O'Malley," she whistled. "How'd you manage this?"

As he watched her parse the bruised skin and bone, he realized that she'd changed from Callie, Regular Woman, into Doctor Torres, Ortho Resident Extraordinaire, right before his eyes. It was really rather hot. "I was frustrated at someone," he said.

"Stevens?" she asked, absently. She looked up at him. "I heard she ditched you."

George frowned. Callie had just poured a bucket full of ice onto his ardor. "Uh, yeah. Who - "

Callie snorted. "Karev. Yang. Grey. You know, the usual suspects." She shook her head as she looked back down at his injury. "You should have an ice pack on it. Stay off your feet." She looked up again and gave him a smirk, one that said that she was thinking of a couple different and delicious ways to accomplish that.

"That's what he should have done," a familiar voice piped. "But _nooooo..._"

George looked up to see Jillian - stunning in shapely black satin, but a bit unsteady on her feet - behind Callie. "Oh, boy," he mumbled to himself. He could tell by the expression on the old flame's face that this was not going to be a pleasant conversation.

* * *

Izzie caught a few disbelieving glances. A couple of smiles. One sad head shake. And none of it matter a whit to her. This was perfection. She felt a plume of joyful anticipation mushrooming through her. Tonight was the night she redeemed herself in George's eyes. Tonight, she was balancing the scales in their friendship. Tonight, he'd see. They'd all see. 

She caught herself about to hop from the sheer force of the adrenaline shooting through her, and had to grab on to the elevator hand rail to keep earthbound. She was all giggly and nervous and her insides felt all - what was that ten-dollar word for 'bubbly'? George'd know, she thought.

_Effervescent_, the George-voice in her brain revealed. Like champagne. And he was right.

The elevator dinged again, and people exchanged positions...some off, some on...

This car had stopped every floor...and she was beginning to see in her mind's eye that the numbers behind her had grown...

They weren't getting off...and there was nervous conversation going on behind her...growing chatter, in whispered tones...the occasional puffs of asthma inhalers...

Izzie began to sense the cold shiver of paranoia creeping up on her...feeling eyes on her...beady, squinty, laser-focused eyes on her...

...and that's when she felt the tap on her shoulder...

"Hey..." an adenoidal voice said.

Izzie didn't look. "Yes?"

"You're George O'Malley's girfriend, right?"

She felt a bark escape her throat, like she was consciously trying to deny something that she subconsciously knew to be true. That disturbed her a little. "No," she said. "Not his girlfriend. Just his friend."

"Oh." The voice was disappointed. "You know what we're gonna call you?"

Oh, God, Izzie thought...that's where she recognized those eyes from...they'd stared at her all last night...the half-dozen of them...

...the Nickname Boys...

...and she was surrounded...

* * *

CoverBoyz started to ruin everyone's fond memories of 'Ballroom Blitz' as George tried to roll down his pant leg as quickly as he could without feeling too much of a groan from his battered shin. "Jillian Martin," George started as he hoisted himself from the chair, "this is - " 

"Callie," Jillian finished.

"Yeah...how - " Callie said.

"So you're the lucky one," Jillian said.

"Sorry?"

Jillian's limbs seemed a bit loose and swung at her sides. "He dedicated The Song to you," she said with a wavering smirk.

"The Song?" Callie turned to George for help.

George wore a sickly smile. "Please don't ask."

"He dedicated it to me once too. On prom night," she said, wiggling a finger wave to him. "Remember, Georgie? It means he really likes you. **Likes you**-likes you. You know?"

Callie's eyebrows arched a bit. "Riiigghht..."

"'Cause he liked me-liked me. And I pretty much blew that all to hell." Jillian's face darkened and brightened in the middle of the same thought. "And since the lovely blonde Doctor Izzie is only - _izzieizzonlyizzonlyizzieonly_ - ha! Makes my mouth all tingly..."

"Jillian?" George asked.

"George," she replied. "Where was I? Oh, yeah. Since. She. Izzzzz. Only. His close, personal friend. Just like I was...once upon a mattress...or was it twice...no! It was **three** times. And a half. Not his fault, by the way...he just wore me out..."

George O'Malley had never really wished for his own swift and terrible death until this moment...but he'd never really needed to...

"...and since she's not here - right, Georgie?"

Please be done talking, he thought, as he felt more sweat beads forming on his hairline. "Uh - mm - yes."

"Then you win the O'Malley lottery," Jillian said, giving Callie a chuck on the shoulder that seemed a bit less than friendly. "Congratulations, enjoy your prize. And I mean _**enjoy**_." She winked. "I'm not eligible anymore. Engaged. To a millionaire. But - Callie - may I call you Callie? It's such a pretty name. For a - " She stopped for a second and took a long look at Callie. "Wow - you really are gorgeous. I can see why George likes having sex with you."

"Jillian?" George asked, his voice up a few notes.

"Yes, love?" she replied. "And he is a love, isn't he? Does he do that thing with you where he swirls - "

"Jillian!" George snapped, noticing Callie's eyes turning to daggers.

She looked startled for a moment, then giggled. "Oh. I guess that means no, huh?"

George hooked a hand under Jillian's elbow and ushered her away from Callie, just in the nick of time.

* * *

"Are you okay?" the pinched voice continued. "You seem all jittery." 

Oh, God, she thought, she was jittery. George had warned her..._'get away...get away quickly'_...but there was nowhere to go except deep into a corner. She fixed her eyes on the elevator buttons. "Not - no. I mean, yes. I'm okay."

"Good. 'Cause I get nervous myself in elevators. Sometimes I pass out. Not all the time - "

Another voice interrupted. More condescending, this one. "Settle down, Woody. Hey, you wanna guess what we're gonna call you?"

She swallowed hard. "No," she said, trying to laugh but finding it nearly impossible.

"Guess," he said. "Guess what we're gonna call you."

"No," Izzie repeated, trying to remain polite. "I'm no good at that kind of stuff."

"Go on," the one called Woody replied. "It's okay."

Izzie felt her jaw tighten. "Why don't you just tell me? Just tell me."

A long silence. Then, from Mister Condescension: "Guess."

"I don't know," Izzie groaned.

"Come on, guess..." Woody whined.

"I don't want to guess," she hissed. "I don't want to."

Another long silence. Then just as Izzie was centering herself again, a "please?" was whispered way too close to her ear.

"No!" She spun on them, her being aflame. She turned her eyes on all of them. "Listen. Fellas." She was spitting fire. "Tell me. Just tell me what you're gonna call me and let's get it over with."

The sextet was in a silent shock, cringing and cowering just a bit, which was perhaps a defense mechanism, or, more likely, a total lack thereof. Either way, they were clinging to life by their fingernails.

She took them all in. These were awkward men, who had previously been awkward boys. One of them appeared to be dressed as a character from "The Matrix", another wore what appeared to be full Star Trek dress uniform. She glowered at them, then turned back around.

Woody found his voice again. "Well," he huffed. "We were gonna call you Doctor Nice-n-Hot, 'cause you we thought you were nice and - um - you're also hot...but now...no..."

"Yeah," the Condesecender said. "Now we're gonna call you...uh..."

Much whispering was followed by Woody calling out "Grumpzie..."

...which was matched almost immediately by Condescender's shouted "Grizzie..."

Woody sounded ticked. "No, no...Grizzie? That sounds like 'grizzly', and that's our mascot, Goofus."

Condescender's tone was...well... "Yeah, like anyone's gonna confuse her with the mascot."

Soon the group was split fairly evenly, and the voices were cacophonous. It didn't matter who was speaking, they were all just voices pinging around the atmosphere of their own world. "It doesn't make any sense...and here he goes again...oh, and Grumpzie's perfectly logical...that's too many hoops to jump through...you gotta think too much about it...hey, look, it's been a few years, I'm kinda rusty...kinda? You're King Rusty...His Royal Rustiness...the Fifteenth Arch-Duke of Rusty...Arch-Duke? What the hell?"

Izzie now wished that she had simply guessed, been wrong, and gotten it over with. But at least she'd distracted them. She pushed the button for the next floor down, and the elevator slowed, then stopped.

As the doors opened, and she stepped off, she heard someone say, "See, jerk? You scared her off."

And then someone else said, as the doors closed, "Cool dress, though."

That made Izzie perk up once again. Now if she could just find the stairs...

* * *

Jillian was oblivious, and indeed, having a ball. "If we keep going, there a janitor's closet down that way," she whispered. "I won't tell if you won't." 

He stopped her when they were out of most people's earshot. "What's going on? You're plastered!"

"The mini-bar, George. Yours looked good, so I decided to raid mine." Her eyes danced. "Blueberry schnapps and mini-muffins, at fourteen bucks? Who in their right mind can turn down such value?"

He ran a hand through his hair, pasting it together with the sweat of his brow. "Jillie..."

"Georgie..." she replied. "Can't we at least give it one more shot - for old times?"

"No," George said. "Why are we even talking about this anymore? I thought this was over."

"It probably is. But I'm a bit fuzzy on the details." She noticed George's eyes catching a well-heeled duo watching them from down the hall, and she grinned. "Awww, your face is all kinds of cute when you're embarrassed." She reached out and gripped his cheeks between her palms, squishing them together like she was kneading bread dough. "All cuddly. No wonder you were number one in the poll."

George gripped her hands to remove them. "Number - what? What poll?"

"The secret senior poll, remember?" She put her hands on her hips.

"Vaguely," he replied.

Jillian seemed to know it by heart. "Question six: _'Which boy would you like to make into a man?'_"

George's eyes widened at the recollection of the giggles when he would walk down a hall, or into a classroom, or pass a cafeteria table at lunch time. Lots of girls hiding their notebooks. Lots and lots of them. "I was number one?"

"Mm-hm! Numero uno with the girls." She thought for a moment. "And number eight with the guys!"

"Number eight with the - ?" George stammered. "Who beat - oh, Christ, I can't believe the thought just crossed my mind..."

Jillian laughed. "Neither can I, and I'm drunk!"

Then her eyes left him for a moment, and George wondered what she was looking at, and then he felt a hard tap on his shoulder. He knew that tap. It was the kind of tap that made George feel sicker.

Jillian on the other hand... "Hey, Dar, darling...darling Dar..." she sang.

* * *

Izzie found the stairwell, but by the time she arrived, she was having to walk fairly gingerly. She'd realized too late that she'd picked up the wrong shoes for the evening, ones that were simply too tight. Her toes were pinched in her pumps, and because she was trying to move as quickly as she could in them, her feet were really beginning to hurt. She finally had to stop on a landing, and as she was sitting down and leaning over herself to pry them loose, her clutch purse started buzzing. 

She withdrew her cell phone, and took a look at the read-out. "Meredith?" she asked the air, as she flipped the phone open. "Hello?"

The caller was indeed the name on the caller ID. "Iz, where are you?" Meredith's voice suddenly began to sound like she was a thousand miles away, standing next to a raging tornado. "We...oin...a...an..."

Izzie tugged one shoe off. "Wait a second," she said, her voice bouncing off the cold steel and concrete. Another tug on the other heel, and the second shoe clunked to the ground. She then pushed herself through a door and was back into another quiet hallway. "What?" she asked. "Is there an emergency?"

The sound improved instantly. "I said, we're going to a movie and - "

"Oh. We? What we?" Izzie asked.

"The - some - of us."

"Who?"

"Just some," Meredith replied. "Where are you? We thought you'd like to go."

"I can't," Izzie said with a mixture of smile and grimace as she flexed her sore toes. "Something came up."

"What something? You have no life."

"I do so!" Izzie protested.

"No, you - hey, wait a second. You didn't - " Meredith's voice was choking with amazement.

"Yes, I did," Izzie responded with a grin. Her pain was gone, just like that.

"Well, all right!" Meredith sounded genuinely pleased. "Good for you! And for George, too."

"Yeah," Izzie replied, tapping the call button for the elevator. Nickname Boys or not, she decided, her feet were killing her, and another four flights of stairs wasn't going to help. "I gotta get going - the formal's already started."

"That's right, the formal," Meredith said. "Hey, where'd you find a gown?"

"Around," Izzie said.

"Around?" Meredith fell silent and found her voice again in the same sudden fashion. "No. Way."

Izzie grinned as the elevator doors opened to an empty car. Her luck was improving. "Way," she replied. "See you tomorrow." Then she stepped on and the doors closed behind her.

* * *

George spun around to catch Dar's eyes. He glared at George for a second before casting a warmer gaze at Jillian. "Jillie, you look ravishing...and ravished." 

"Thank you, kind sir. Nice tux."

"It oughta be, all the stuff I put up..." He pretended to be surprised. "Oh, and this must be your late grandfather...hello, sir - welcome back to the land of the living...oh, dang it. It's George. I didn't recognize you, since you're a grownup and all."

"Dar..." George said. "I'm sorry."

"You're not sorry," Dar frowned. "You think I'm a joke."

George's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I'm a joke to you. An old, bad joke." Dar sighed. "You're embarrassed by me. Embarrassed by the music, embarrassed by the past, embarrassed about everything."

"Oh, yeah..." Jillian said, "...sucks about your band..."

"Thanks, Jillie. At least somebody cares."

"I care, Dar..." George started to protest.

"Yeah, sure. And you show it by never calling me or having me come over to your house or coming to see us play - we did a festival in Portland and blew the doors off the dump." Dar briefly smiled at the memory, then added, "Granted, the place was literally a dump - an industrial landfill - but it was being buried the next day, and we kicked ass, so there."

Jillian smiled. It was as crooked as her stance. "Hey, dear Dar...I always wondered...why Foreigner?"

Dar squinted, as if he didn't understand the question and had to translate the words he could pick out. "'Cause we like Foreigner," he finally replied. "Plus it's a hook: we don't sound like the other bands."

"Not now...a few years ago, though..." George said.

"You do not get to talk. Doctor...Jerk...face." Dar grimaced at himself. "That's all I got right now. If I had one of the Nickname Boys around though, whoo-boy, you'd have a tag that you'd never be free of, you...grownup." He tried to make it sound crushing, but knew it had failed. So he turned his sights on the hapless Wendy and her single-piloted meet-and-greet table. "Now if you'll excuse me, Jillian, I have to vent my frustrations on a member of the committee that shafted me...and not in a fun way." He started stalking towards poor Wendy, who, once she noticed him, tried in vain to pack up and disappear.

"Should I stop him?" George asked, starting to follow.

Jillian shrugged, clutching his arm. "I'm so hammered. Hammmmmered. Sounds like hamburger. Hammmburger hammmmmer...oooooh...I'm feeling a bit queasy..."

_Please don't throw up, pleaseohplease_, George begged her in the silence of his head as he tried to approach a rampaging Dar, already in full voice.

"'Too narrowly focused'? 'Too narrowly focused'?!" Dar shouted over the band's slaughtering of 'Is This Love', as Wendy stood before him, a trembling fawn in his Mack-truck headlights. "CoverBoyz beat us because we were 'too narrowly focused'?! If anyone achieves their goal of doing something 'too narrowly', it's them. And they 'too narrowly' suck!" He turned an eye toward the ballroom as he was speaking. "I am disgusted, I am appalled, I am - ooh..."

George's eyes followed Dar's attentions - which had fallen on a clearly displeased Callie Torres. "Aw, crap..." he groaned, wanting to run to block Dar's approach, but being held back by a woozy Jillian.

"I thought we were headed for the janitor's closet..." she mumbled.

"Shhh!" George hissed.

"Oh, it's a _secret_. Okey-dokey..."

"Callie," Dar said, extending his hand just as George dove between them, the weight of Jillian on his hip threatening to cause a multi-body pile-up.

Callie was stunned at Dar. "Yeah. How - "

"Because you're drop-dead gorgeous, you have a confident posture, and you're standing next to - " He shifted his gaze with a flourish. " - that guy." Dar shook his head as he looked at the half-peeved and all-confused Callie and the virtually unconscious Jillian, then back at George. "They're all for you, aren't they? No one else can have one. You're like some kind of - " He looked at Callie again. "Is he gifted? Sexually, I mean? Because they all pine for him. Not a few of them. All of them! It's like he's the chief rooster and they're all broody hens, plopped on their drumsticks, waiting for the Big Co - "

"Who the hell are you?" Callie asked.

He grinned, but very little of it was out of happiness. "Dar Torvald. Oop. Darrin to George, because he wants us to be grownups. Can you believe that?"

Callie was very unamused. "What the hell is going on here?"

George exhaled and looked his old friend in the eye. "This is Darrin Torvald, Callie. My best friend in high school. He's a genius."

At that, Dar's angry grin vanished. His entire visage softened, in fact.

"Him?" Callie asked, gesturing toward the other man.

"Certified," George said. "The real deal. Card-carrying member of Mensa, graduated Harvard Business School in three years, ranked first in his class. And not just because he's savvy and ethical and much, much smarter than you would ever suspect. See, Darrin - " George stopped for a moment, smiled at his friend, then continued, " - Dar - he doesn't just have a head for numbers, he gets them - their rhythms, their tones, their subtle shades. And how does he do that? I don't know. Neither does he. But I do know that when he was two years old, he walked up to a piano - something he'd seen played exactly once before in his entire life - sat down at it and played a song he'd just heard on the radio. And he didn't just plink out the notes or get lucky while he was smacking the keys. He played the song. Both hands, in tempo with the original - not a hair faster or slower. I know this because his parents still have the old reel-to-reel recording of it, and I've heard it at least a hundred times. And it always, always astonishes me, and delights me, and makes me proud that I ever knew him." George's voice was filled with genuine amazement. "Numbers are music to him. And music - music's what makes Dar a genius."

Dar's lips pursed and his eyes flashed. He smiled at George. Then he tapped his foot against George's shin.

"Ow!" George said, returning the favor with a light punch against Dar's bicep.

"Errrgh..." Dar groaned. And grinned.

And that was that. Callie frowned. "Boys," she muttered.

Then from out of the blue, a plucking bass. A familiar rhythm and snare drum.

"**Gaahh!**" Dar cried. "I'm standing right here, you posers!" He zipped across the room, ruffling dresses. He jumped on to the bandstand and tackled a couple of CoverBoyz.

"What in the - " Callie started to ask.

"I can't believe they had the balls," George said, shock tinging his voice as he limped in Dar's footsteps. "Smug bastards!" he called out. "You've murdered us all!"

"What?"

"'Urgent', Callie. They're - kinda - playing his song." George made his way onto the bandstand, where Dar was tearing apart the CoverBoyz rhythm section. When he hit the stage, hands up in a gesture of peace, a few of the Boyz took him as a threat and began circling him.

Callie couldn't stand back. She took after George. "Playing his song...what does that mean?"

Jillian reappeared at Callie's side, her head swimming a bit. "Dar gets a bit terririri...terrrrri...teeeehh...protective when it comes to Foreigner songs being played to mock him."

"Why?"

"He just likes Foreigner a lot. Plus that's what his band plays. They're quite good. Played a dump last year."

"Why doesn't somebody just call security? Get him kicked out?"

Jillian shrugged. "Well, I 'spose somebody could, but that might be kinda rude, seein' how this is his hotel."

Callie froze. "His what?"

"Mm-hm," Jillian said, still walking. "He owns it, plus four others. Runs this one, 'cause Seattle's home." She stopped, noticing that Callie was not next to her. Up on stage, George was calling for peace while Dar had the CoverBoyz bassist in a headlock. Jillian smiled, and turned back to the other woman. "Those two, huh? Some boys never...say, Callie, do you like Izzie?"

Callie was taken aback. "I...uh..."

Jillian grinned. "So you don't."

"Well...I..."

"It's okay. I don't like her, either...or you, for that matter..." Her attention went back to the stage, where George was trying to keep the synth player from taking a shot at a suddenly prone Dar. "Don't hit him in the face, Georgie! You'll hurt those wonderful, wonderful hands of yours."

Callie squared her jaw. "You don't even know me."

"Don't need to. I saw him first, Callie. He's mine. Dibs, triple-stamp, no erasies. And Izzie gets him when I die." She cringed as the high-hat crashed to the floor. "And it'll be in my will that way, so don't go tryin' nothin'..."

Finally, Callie had heard enough. She came to the edge of the stage and began unstacking the bodies. "George! Everybody, stop it! George!"

She found him, finally, using his knee to pin the rhythm guitarist against the floor. "Callie, please..." he said.

"Dammit, George...see this dress? I maxed out my MasterCard to buy this dress - for you!"

Dar, wrenching the lead singer's arm, blinked at her. "I think it probably looks better on you."

George grimaced. "Dar..."

"Shh. I'm helping."

"No, you're not!"

"I had my nails done, my hair...I bought new underwear!" she blurted.

"New?" George asked.

"Yes, George. Very sexy, very, very expensive - and very, very, very not me, George!" She fired a withering gaze at him. "And I bought them - and am wearing them - for you!"

"Me?"

Callie was fuming. "I had plans for you tonight...big plans..."

"Plans? Sounds mischievious," Dar smirked.

"Shut up, Dar..." George grimaced.

"...and now, those plans are..." she said.

Dar let the other man go - after he cried 'uncle', of course. "Did the plans involve our Georgie-boy seeing the new unmentionables?"

"Yes. Yes, Dar. But not anymore."

"May I see them?" Dar smirked.

"I'm going to pretend that you did not just say that," Callie spat. "Because if I don't, I'll snap your spine like a toothpick."

"And she could," George said.

"Pipe down, you," she replied.

He started coming off the stage, his eyes searching the crowd. "Callie, I'm sorry. I just...I...I..." And like that George's words were gone. It was as if he'd lost the power of speech.

Callie noticed his sudden stillness. And she realized that everyone else on the bandstand was the same. She turned to see what they were staring at.

And right in the middle of the parted crowd, all alone, stood Izzie Stevens. Big as life, with an even bigger smile, wearing a dress that can be described in exactly two words:

_**Neon.**_

_**Orange.**_

Dar's face was bright as the promise of a new day. He hooked an arm around the still-stunned George. "What did I say, my boy? What did I say?" he laughed. Then he grabbed the microphone. "**LADIES AND GENTLEMEN...I GIVE YOU...IZZIE!**"

And the crowd went wild - cheering, applauding, chanting her name...

George's eyes were a-light, and he strode past Callie - like he didn't even see her - to find Izzie in the middle of the maelstrom.

Jillian again materialized at Callie's side. "That's why I'm out of the running," she said, a little sadness trickling into her voice. "I can't compete with that one."

Callie frowned. She had a lot of reasons to frown, but mainly because, tonight anyway, she couldn't compete either.

George met Izzie deep in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by the still-crazed throng. He looked her up and down. "I thought you burned this," he said, wearing an ear-to-ear grin.

"I tried," she replied. "Turns out that just makes it more orange."

"I - I can't - " George said, impulsively embracing her, feeling the rush that always seemed to come when he had her close. "Thank you. Thank you for coming back."

She was beaming as she put her arms around him. "Wherever, whenever...right?"

Suddenly, Dar was at their side, microphone in hand. "Look at these kids, just look at 'em. Aren't they adorable?" And as the crowd roared again, Dar caught George's elbow, and whispered something in his ear. Then he stood back and nodded, with an expanding, silly smile.

Izzie caught a bit of it as Dar went back to working the crowd, and looked at George's slightly disbelieving expression. "What?" she asked. "What'd he say?"

"Nothing," George fizzed. "Just...just...'once and future, Georgie-boy...once and future...'"

Izzie smiled and laid her blonde head on his shoulder.

"Look at this couple...look at you..." Dar said. "You're not shy. You get around."

George laughed out loud...and so did Izzie.

"You wanna fly - don't want your feet on the ground," Dar said, running to the stage, where his band and CoverBoyz had assembled, all wounds healed. "You stay up, you won't come down; you wanna live, you wanna move to the sound..."

Then that bass line kicked in...and the beat was dead-on...and Dar stripped off his jacket and tore open his shirt, a rock star reborn.

Woody approached them cautiously, tapped Izzie on the shoulder, which made her turn. "Um," he said, shifting uncomfortably in her gaze. "We of the Nickname Boys wish to apologize for whatever emotional harm we may have caused you, Izzie. Our nicknames are only to be used for good, and never for evil."

"Okay," she said..

He brightened. "In that spirit, we wanted you to know what your nickname is now." His expression sparkled a bit. "We've decided to call you...Kool-Aid."

"What?" she asked.

"Because you are orange...and you are refreshing and cool...and you aid your friends...even if they aren't your boyfriend...which - uh -gives the rest of us a lot of hope..." he said, blushing.

Izzie smiled. "Thank you."

"Don't do that," George whispered. "It's like feeding a stray cat...they'll never leave you alone."

And indeed, Woody wasn't finished. "We've also figured out what we're going to call the two of you. Guys?"

...three of the six shouted "**Gizzie!**"...

...while the other three cried "**O'Stevens!**"...

Woody looked like he was about to rupture. "Aww, come on! I thought we went over this, for cryin' out loud!"

And while he went to battle with his compatriots, George led Izzie to the stage, where Dar was waiting with an alto sax and a happy smile.

"Excuse me, ma'am," George said. "But I think these boys need...a sax machine."

Then, on impulse, he gave her a quick peck on the lips. Izzie was a bit stunned by it.

And frankly, so was he.

But it wasn't a bad stun. Not in the slightest.

Dar shouted from the stage, "What did I say, Georgie-boy? Your future begins tonight!"

And Jillian appeared next to Izzie, a screwy smile on her face. "_**Lucky**_," she said.

* * *

_**The End**_

_**Tom Also Sez Also: **Thanks to all of my Kind Readers, here and all over the Net...I'd never have finished this - or started it -without you. What a fun trip this has been for me, and I hope all of you feel the same._

_There may be even more with Dar and Jillian...I've got a couple great ideas, and anything's possible, so long as the hamster keeps turning the wheel..._

_More George and Izzie coming incredibly soon...I promise...and if you're at LJ, you know what that means...plus there will be much more here...my second chapter of _**Hysteria**_...my third chapter of_ **I'm Dead**_...trust me, I'm not done with in the slightest...I really love writing here..._

_I gotta run...enjoy the house music...or whatever the hell that thumping noise is..._


End file.
